


Draco Meowfoy: Aristocat

by Dumbothepatronus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blackmail, Cats, Co-workers, EWE, F/M, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Next Generation, Humor, Mutual Pining, Neighbors, No Smut, POV Third Person, Past Tense, Pets, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Secret Relationship, Teacher Draco Malfoy, boss babe villan, dramione - Freeform, grandkittens, sweet romance, teacher hermione, ugly leggings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 65,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22044157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dumbothepatronus/pseuds/Dumbothepatronus
Summary: For the past two years, Professor Granger has been keeping an embarrassing secret. It becomes even more embarrassing when a certain blonde aristocrat invades her apartment building as well as her workplace.When troublesome students and a blackmailing boss babe threaten her livelihood and her sanity, how will she manage to straighten things out?Dramione/weekly updates
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 162
Kudos: 291
Collections: Best of DMHG, finished





	1. Chapter 1

The late August sun sparkled.

It sparkled off the windows, onto the sidewalk, and into Hermione Granger's eyes. She scrambled away from her Hogsmeade flat, towards the tip of a lilac-gray tail that poked out from under a bush.

It didn't make any sense, and Hermione couldn't stand things that didn't make sense.

On the pages of her Kneazle's gilded-edged, hardcover biography were the words classy, particular—snobbish, even. Never "adventurer." Never "mischievous."

Hermione glared at the blooming snozzberry bush in Honeydukes' shop-side garden. "Draco! What are you doing?"

"I live here, Granger."

Hermione's hand flew to her heart as she whirled around. Where seconds ago had been nobody at all stood Draco Malfoy.

"No, I meant—nevermind." She grimaced. This was an unfortunate surprise, and not one she had time to deal with at the moment

The concrete warmed her knees as she crouched to peer into the bush's dense green leaves. She reached into it and pulled out a beautiful white Kneazle with pale grey ears, legs, and tail.

"I'm Hogwarts' new Potions Master, in case you hadn't heard." Draco Malfoy kicked at a pebble on the cobblestone path. He looked oddly self-conscious for someone who considered himself wizarding royalty.

"I hadn't. And I suppose you have yourself a flat in Hogsmeade?"

He pointed to the apartment building across the street. "I'm on the second floor."

"Just my luck," Hermione muttered into a faceful of pristine fur. Of course he was in that apartment—where else would he be? It was the only housing option in Hogsmeade if you didn't count the Hog's Head Inn. A wry smile pulled at Hermione's mouth as she imagined Draco Malfoy in a dingy bedroom above a noisy pub.

"What was that?" Draco asked.

"I said, good luck! I've met some of the incoming first-years—you're going to need it."

Draco grinned. "I'm sure I can brew a few calming draughts to help me through the first week."

"You're not abandoning my Muggle Studies class, are you?"

He took a step forward and reached his elegant fingers towards her. Her eyes widened until his fingertips ran through the fine white fur on her Kneazle's head. Draco purred.

"I think the Wizengamont would be rather put out if I stopped. Life-long duty, and all that."

Hermione nodded to herself, her long-standing suspicions confirmed. She supposed she could have asked, five years ago when he'd given his first lecture in her classroom.

She could have asked, but she didn't need to.

Hermione Granger was a people-reader.

She read them, not like those silly fantasy novels scattered over Ginny Potter's coffee table, but like her Hogwarts: A History textbook. Methodologically. Factually. She'd read the book Draco Malfoy: Aristocrat word for word, beginning with the detailed prologue: King of Hogwarts, Prince of Slytherin. It was all she needed to know. Despite his court-mandated community service, Draco was, somewhere deep-down, prejudiced. And none of the sincerity that seemed to accent his pretty words could change her mind. It was written. It was fact.

Still, it didn't stop her from admiring the precise way he combed his hair or the immaculate state of his robes. It was a simple, observable truth: along with prejudiced, Draco Malfoy was polished. Confident. Flirtatious to a fault.

When she returned to her flat, she dropped her familiar down to the carpet and scratched behind his ears. "You naughty thing. You're just as troublesome as your namesake."

Apartment B4 had a sense of wizarding whimsy that was present long before Hermione had moved in. The carpet was purple with blue pictures of various magical creatures. Whoever had designed the place had put the same ugly carpet in the hallways between flats as well.

It was so garish, Hermione had chosen simple, monochromatic furniture to add balance. She wasn't sure it had worked.

In the fridge were three rows of glass bottles, the kind with a metal cap and pictures of arctic glaciers on the label. She pulled one from the shelf and tipped it into a crystal bowl on her kitchen counter.

It had been almost two years since she had spied the cat in the window of Magical Menagerie, perched on a post with his nose in the air. The moment she saw his steel-grey eyes, pointy face, and aristocratic beauty, she knew she had to bring him home. He was the spitting image of a certain blond who haunted her classroom once a year--a certain blond whose voice sent shivers down her spine.

As she lowered the bowl to the floor, her Kneazle perched himself behind the indulgent dish set. It was over the top, but it suited him. Hermione couldn't imagine his regal mouth licking liver pate from a plastic plate. It would be an atrocity.

"We'll have to see about setting some better wards. There is no way you are escaping this flat again, Draco Meowfoy."

* * *

The last week before the start of the fall term flew by in a series of awkward disappearances behind apartment stairwells. Much to her frustration, not only was she in the same building as Malfoy, but their flats were only four doors apart.

His presence in her building complicated things. It was hard enough to keep her eyes on her paperwork instead of the proud stance of his shoulders as he stood in front of her blackboard once a year. It was nearly impossible to keep her dead-end crush a secret when she had to pass him in the hallway every day of her life. She didn't even want to think about what would happen if he discovered her Kneazle's embarrassing name.

At least once the school year started he'd be in the potions dungeon and she on the third floor, so she'd see less of him. Probably. With only three more days until the start of the term, she supposed she would find out soon.

She had just finished dotting the i's on her syllabus when her stomach rumbled. Meowfoy glared at the sound from his favorite spot, a green velvet cushion on her desk, as if it offended him. Hermione sighed. 1:30 pm was a little late to eat lunch. She'd been so caught up in her paperwork that she hadn't noticed the afternoon slipping by.

Besides, Draco typically left his apartment around noon, so now should be a safe time to venture out. Meowfoy gave an indignant "meow" as Hermione rose from her chair. She scratched behind his ears, then stuck her nose into the hall to check for pointy-faced blonds.

Her pathway was clear, all the way down the sun-soaked sidewalk past Honeydukes and The Magical Menagerie. She grinned. Her favorite bakery, The Sword in the Scone, sat on the corner lot, and she could already smell the muffins rising.

It wasn't only the muffins Hermione loved. The bakery was modern and inviting. Quirky furniture sat around small, octagonal tables and pen-and-ink artwork on the walls.

The witch behind the had tawny waves that swayed in a way Hermione could only dream of. She waved as Hermione pushed through the front door.

"Hey, Hermione! The usual?"

Hermione nodded. She always got the same thing when she came here, which was at least once a week. The Sword in the Scone made the most delectable poppy seed muffins. Their sweet aroma lingered on her tongue hours after the last crumb disappeared.

The witch grinned at Hermione and placed her muffin into a paper sack along with a package of fish crackers.

Only once had Hermione returned to her flat without Meowfoy's favorite treat. She thought he'd never know, but that was a mistake--his keen sense of smell picked up on the poppy seeds. He had given her the cold shoulder for an entire week.

She had just settled into her favorite plastic rocking chair by the corner window when the bell over the door tinkled. Hermione grimaced as the last wizard she wanted to see strode up to the counter.

There was a potted ball cactus on her table that was not quite large enough for her to shrink behind, but it didn't stop her from trying.

As Draco bantered with the witch behind the counter, she contemplated shoving the entire muffin into her mouth, grabbing the fish snacks, and high-tailing it out the front door, but the thought of it killed her. These muffins were meant to be savored.

As Draco turned from the counter holding a silver plate with a scone skewered by a tiny metal sword, Hermione knew she'd been spotted. She could see it in the way his eyes brightened and his feet turned towards her table. She swore into her muffin.

"Granger? Mind if I sit?"

He was already scooting one of the rocking chairs out with his foot and placing his plate onto the table.

"If I say no, will I be vilified by the press?"

Draco's rocking chair didn't tilt a single centimeter as he placed himself upon it. He smirked at the perfectly-flaky crust of his scone and pulled out the sword. As soon as the blade was free, the sound of trumpets and a disembodied voice tinkled in the air around their table. "He has pulled the sword from the scone," it said. "He is the one true king!"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I had one of those once. Never again."

"What, don't fancy being celebrated?"

"As if the newspapers don't do plenty of that on their own. I'm surprised you're not sick of it." It seemed like at least once a month that Draco was pictured in some newspaper or another. He always had a high-society witch on his arm—Astoria Greengrass, or Pansy Parkinson.

Draco pinched the sword between his thumb and forefinger and cut into the scone. His motions were precise, proper, and likely drilled into him from toddlerhood by his aristocratic parents.

A juicy cherry popped out of the pastry and onto his plate. Hermione's mouth watered.

It was a shame about the theatrics because the scones were delicious.

Draco skewered the cherry with the sword and lifted his eyes back to Hermione's.

He smirked and popped it into his mouth. "Are you sure you won't have a scone?"

Hermione shook her head. "I always get the poppyseed."

"Hmmmmm. You want to know what I think?" He skewered another cherry. "I think you're afraid of a little indulgence. Afraid to give yourself what you really want."

He stared her down with an intensity that hinted he meant more than cherry scones.

* * *

Hermione had just ducked into her flat, narrowly avoiding a certain platinum-blond neighbor, when her floo lit up.

Harry Potter's face appeared through the ashes. "Hermione? Can I come through?"

"Go on then. What is it this time?"

With a whoosh and the soft sound of hands brushing stubborn ashes off of Muggle jeans, Harry stepped into Hermione's living room. "It's about Teddy. Andromeda and I have been wondering—"

"Oh, Teddy! That's right—he's starting up at Hogwarts this year, isn't he?"

Harry nodded. "Yes, and—"

"Oh, I know, I know. You'd like me to keep an eye on him. Take him under my wing?"

Hermione had always loved Teddy. Ever since the day he was born, and she'd seen him nuzzled into Tonks' arms, she'd known he was a special boy. When he'd first used his metamorphic abilities to impersonate Hermione's wild curls, she'd fallen completely in love.

She was grateful to Andromeda for allowing Harry to take such an active role as his Godfather. Harry doted on him like the father neither one of them had ever known, and Teddy was a delight to be around.

In the book of Teddy Lupin was written: adorable, cautious, wistful. The perfect candidate to become a perfect student.

"I'm so excited. I haven't had nearly enough time for him lately."

Harry ran his hand through his hair. "That's actually one of the reasons I've—"

"Oh, of course! You'll want me to keep an extra close watch on him, since he'll be away from home for the first time. Don't worry, Harry. I see this every year. Parents always worry, but most first-years do fine. He'll love Hogwarts."

"I… ok. Yes. An extra close eye couldn't hurt." Harry glanced at his watch. "I'm sorry, Hermione, but I've got to run back to work. You wouldn't believe how many unexplained explosions there've been this week."

Harry sped towards the floo and dipped his fingers into the powder box on the mantle. "Just… let me know if you have any trouble?"

He didn't wait for her reply. With a flash and a bang, he was gone.

* * *

Hermione wasn't one to dread the first day of school. As a child, it had always been a new beginning, full of promise and opportunity. Yet, for the first time in her life, nerves bundled in her stomach instead of excitement.

As the clock switched from 7:59 to 8:00 on Monday morning, the steady thrum of footsteps paced down the corridor. For a moment she worried it was Draco, so she breathed a sigh of relief when a head full of turquoise spikes ducked into her classroom.

Teddy had a twinkle in his eye, like the one Hermione had seen in his mother's a decade ago. He may have inherited his mother's ability to change his facial features at will, but his shape was all Remus. Tall and lanky, his shoulders carried a world-weariness that battled with the hint of mischief he held in the upturned corner of his mouth.

Hermione smiled sadly. They would have been proud of him if they could see the boy he had become.

His friend—Tomás Fuego, according to the roll call—looked like pure trouble. Jet black hair, mismatched eyes (one green, one brown), and a sarcastic smile set off alarm bells in Hermione's head. Over the past five years, she'd developed a bit of an eye for trouble. She hoped, for once in her life, that she was wrong.

She was not.

Twenty minutes into class, Teddy shrank into his chair seconds before a set of wet-start fireworks sprang to life in front of the blackboard. She glared as Tomás offered Teddy an overt high-five and a congratulatory grin.

Hermione had never expected it from Teddy Lupin. Her mental book on him was full of shy smiles and conversations over pistachio ice cream. "Naughty" was a word she had never thought to add to his character profile. And yet, here she was, extinguishing half a dozen explosions that she was 99% sure came straight from the pockets of his robes.

Tuesday wasn't much better. Teddy watched in awed admiration as Tomas interrupted the introductory discussion every five minutes with sarcastic remarks.

But today was Wednesday, so things were sure to settle down. Today was going to go better. After all, they were already twenty minutes into class and there had been no explosions yet. Hermione placed her wand on the chalkboard and pointed to a tiny Gryffindor with his hand raised.

"And so Muggles just… sit there and stare at it?"

Hermione fixed her face with her most patient expression. "Yes, Mr. Shafiq. The television tells a story on the screen. Think of it as a book come to life. Some works of film are artistic masterpieces, and others are—"

_Shhhhhhhiiiiieeeee!_

A stream of rainbow-colored smoke screamed out of Penny Greengrasses' ears.

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. This could not be happening. She glanced at the door and said a silent prayer that Headmistress McGonagall wouldn't pick this moment to stroll by. The shame of failing, yet again, to keep her students under control crept up her back like a heat rash.

"Mr. Lupin. Surrender the Raindrops immediately. You know I do not allow Weasley products in my classroom. What's that, the third time this week you've earned detention?"

Teddy slouched up to Hermione's desk and deposited a fluffy, floating cloud onto her planner. Tiny droplets drizzled all over the first week of September. Merlin help her. Three days into the semester, and it felt like it had been months.

Tap, tap, tap.

Hermione's head snapped up to the door. It kept getting better.

"Special delivery for Professor Granger." Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway, tall and lean and stunning, jiggling a white paper sack.

Hermione stalked over to him. "Malfoy. Can't you see I'm in the middle of a class?"

His lips turned up into a smirk. "I can see it's been commandeered by Potter's godson. Really, Granger, have you no knack for classroom management?"

She snatched the bag from his taunting fingers. "Excuse me. I'll get back to teaching now, if you don't mind."

His now-empty hand shot out to her shoulder. "Hold on. Don't you want to know why I'm here?"

"Not particularly." Her teeth ground together so hard they sent spikes of pain through her jaw.

"Detention partners have been assigned. Looks like it's you and me this year. Unless you want to request a re-draw."

"As if it isn't enough—" Hermione paused. Headmistress McGonagall's two-teacher detention policy was a good one, but the last thing she needed was more time with Malfoy. This was far too dangerous. She leaned in and dropped her voice low. "We'll discuss this later."

He leaned in, too, until his eyes were inches from hers. "You can count on it. At 7:00 pm in the Great Hall."

He slipped away from her and sauntered down the stone corridor without a backward glance.

"Cheeky little—" Hermione rummaged through his paper bag offering. It held a poppy seed muffin from The Sword in the Scone and a packet of fish-shaped biscuits. Steam rose from the bag and tickled her nose with the scent of almond. Her heart softened as she folded the top of the bag and placed it on her desk.

Eventually, class was dismissed and the students filed out. Hermione stayed to stare at the confiscated Raindrops on her desk. Should she go to Harry? Maybe Harry would have some insight into his godson's bizarre behavior. He'd helped Andromeda raise him for the past eleven years, hadn't he?

She remembered his frantic eyes, his anxious tones when he'd stopped by last week. He was already stressed enough about Teddy. She should owl Ginny instead.

Ginny had such a way of keeping the children in line. She'd know what to do.

Hermione smiled to herself as she finished her letter and sealed the envelope. Her good mood lasted five whole minutes until a familiar eagle owl dropped a letter onto her desk.

Her heart skipped a beat when she recognized Draco's tidy, spiky hand, but it plummeted when she scanned the contents. She crumpled the letter and tossed it at her wastebasket. "Lenient. Ineffective. Ha!"

With a grumble, she donned her coat and set off towards the castle.

Dark clouds covered the stars in the night sky of the Great Hall as Hermione stomped through the staff entrance. It wasn't as if she hadn't been teaching for several years already. Did Malfoy think she was so incompetent that she still hadn't figured out how to manage a classroom?

And he'd been here, what, five minutes? She imagined him standing at the head of his potions classroom, all the female students batting their eyelashes at him. She snorted. That must be it. They were afraid to disappoint England's most eligible bachelor.

Well, she wasn't afraid. He was about to hear exactly what she thought of his arrogance.

Draco was already there, seated at the staff table with a long roll of parchment and an eagle feather quill. He raised his eyebrows at the line of ink that issued from the nub as she neared his throne. "We'll do it your way this time," he said, "but next time it's my turn. Muggle detention methods leave something to be desired."

"There's nothing wrong with the way I detain."

"Then pray tell, Granger: why do you have so many repeat offenders?"

Hermione crossed her arms. "That has nothing to do with—Teddy is just—"

Draco bobbed his chin in an infuriating nod. "My way next week. Speaking of discipline, have you had any luck containing that Kneazle of yours?"

"As a matter of fact, Draco—" She swallowed. "...yes. I mean, no. Draco—my cat has stayed in."

Draco's mouth gaped open, emitting silent befuddlement at her word jumble as Teddy Tonks and Tomás Fuego skidded into the Great Hall.

As soon as the students arrived, Dracos' mood seemed to shift. His eyes narrowed; his lip curled into his signature sneer. "Detention started three minutes ago."

"Sorry, Professors." The boys spoke at once, then turned to each other with small smiles.

Hermione pursed her lips. She wasn't about to let Malfoy commandeer her detention session.

"Take a seat." She plunked two rolls of parchment onto the Gryffindor table. "I want thirty inches each on what you did wrong, why it was wrong, and what you should have done instead."

Draco, all long legs and tailored suit, sauntered over from the staff table and loomed over Hermione's shoulder. "What, not on house-elf rights? And I had such high expectations."

Hermione whirled around to stare him down, but he was too close. All she managed was a tiny squeak of surprise, which achieved exactly the opposite of her desired effect of intimidation.

His responding snicker made her want to simultaneously slap and snog him. She settled on a half-hearted smack to his bicep.

If she thought that would remove his smirk, she was dead wrong.

"Are you flirting with me, Professor? Do I need to assign you detention for breaking a school rule?"

She jutted her chin despite the heat flooding her face. "Actually, the rule is 'no inter-staff dating.' There is nothing in the policy to prohibit flirting."

His smirk grew into a full-on grin.

"Which is not to say I was flirting. I was reprimanding."

"Mmm-hmmm." His head bobbed in a mocking nod. "Well, if you ever get a reckless streak, you know where to find me. I've never been afraid of a little rule-bending."

Why was it that he could irritate her so much, and still manage to make her knees weak? She slumped into a chair at the Gryffindor table and lowered her head onto it.

She needed to get over this stupid crush. He wasn't really flirting—that was just his personality. She was certain that he had no interest in a relationship with a graceless Muggleborn.

Now if only she could get her heart to listen to her brain.

The rest of detention dragged by. The scratching of quills on parchment was the only background music to Hermione trying not to sneak glances at Draco's perfect posture.

Thursday's class went much better, so Hermione's detention methods can't have been that terrible. Sure, Tomás was still sarcastic and Teddy still snickered at his jokes, but not a single thing exploded.

She couldn't hold back a smug smile as she glanced down the hall and twisted the doorknob to open her flat. It looked like she had beaten Draco home—she wouldn't have to see him if she could slip in—

But, no. The tinkle of a bell and scurry of paws through the open door spelled her doom.

"Draco Meowfoy! You naughty thing. You get back here this instant!"

Whiskers twitched mischievously against the garish carpet as Meowfoy rolled on atop it in front of door "B9."

"Draco—" She froze as the door swung open to reveal sculpted cheekbones and a single raised eyebrow.

"You called? Ready for some mischief?"

Oh, Merlin—he was home—and he had heard her.

"Erm, yes—I mean no, I'm not—" Deep, steadying breaths. "Are you rubbing catnip on your door?"

"Catnip." His eyebrow didn't drop a fraction of an inch as he continued his amused scrutiny of her flustered expression.

Hermione scooped feline Draco off of human Draco's dragonskin boots. That skeptical eyebrow finally fell when a tortoiseshell Kneazle with a coat like a mane pushed her nose around Draco's robes. "Oh, no you don't."

He nudged the cat back with his foot and slipped out into the hallway, securing the door behind him.

"That explains it: you have a cat. My cat must have smelled its fur," Hermione said.

"Yes, and unlike you—"

"Yes, yes, I know. You know how to keep him in line." Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Her, actually. It's a girl cat."

"Right. Well, as much as I'd like to stand here, chatting about familiars, I have a Kneazle to contain and papers to grade, so—"

Draco's snarky smirk was the last thing she saw before she spun on her heel and marched back to apartment B4.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you to my betas, Bex and Ethan
> 
> Here we go again! I am so excited to be releasing this story.
> 
> It has been in the works for many months, and I am proud to say that it is a completed work and I will be releasing one chapter per week, every Tuesday.
> 
> If you loved this chapter, leave me some love; it brings me so much joy.
> 
> I am always looking to grow as a writer, so if you have some constructive criticism to offer, feel free to leave that as well!
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn't long before Hermione had the opportunity to witness exactly what Malfoy's idea of a proper detention was. The very next week, Teddy and Tomás let a pygmy puff loose in the classroom, and it had taken twenty minutes to calm poor Susan, who had discovered it crawling up the back of her plait.

So here she was, trekking through starlight filtered through the heavy twilight fog, tightening her cloak and jogging to keep up with Malfoy.

"What on earth were you thinking?" Hermione glared at him through the bright spark of light at the end of her wand. "Didn't you learn anything from our trip into the Forbidden Forest in first year?"

An antique lantern shone yellow light onto Malfoy's face. "I learned that nothing is a better deterrent to misbehavior than a healthy dose of fear."

If he was going for fear, he was succeeding. Hermione eyed the treeline; the branches that reached out like spooks, ready to snatch curious wanderers who came too close. The only reason she'd agreed to this detention was Malfoy's insistence that it would be completely safe, as they wouldn't be entering the forest. Still, standing at its edge, she didn't feel reassured.

Hermione shot a glance back to Teddy and Tomás, who had fallen behind on the dirt-worn path.

Teddy stood, slack-jawed with wonder in his eyes, as Tomás cupped his hands in front of his chest. A ball of golden flames the size of an orange hovered above his hands and illuminated the unadulterated pride on Tomás' face.

"Tomás!" Hermione said. "You are not qualified to conjure self-contained flames, so stop it before you set my hair on fire!"

"Told you so. Your methods are clearly failing—hence; a reign of terror." Draco's voice was full of mirth and confidence, which made her frown. He hadn't been so confident when he was a first year, clinging to Fang's leash and cowering behind Harry.

Hermione's shoulders jumped when a large section of brush waved, as if unfathomable creatures lurked near the edge. She did not want to be here. She did not want to be here at night. And she certainly did not want to be here with two first years and the man in whose book was written "coward under pressure." This was going to end in humiliation, or disaster. Or possibly both.

She could practically feel his smirk, even with her back turned to him.

"Scared, Granger?"

"You wish."

"I was hoping you would say that." He waved his palm towards the treeline and turned towards the boys.

Tomás spoke in a low, excited tone to Teddy, whose wide eyes darted to the treeline as if he expected a dragon to emerge.

"We won't be going into the Forbidden Forest, as that is… forbidden. However, the potions lab is in desperate need of Baneberry."

By the light from his enchanted lantern, he led the group to a cluster of bushes just feet away from the tree roots that snaked out from the forest and onto the castle grounds. He produced a pair of canvas sacks and distributed them to the boys. "I want these filled, and quickly. You never know what the forest might hold."

As if on cue, a soft, melodic whistling sounded from the underbrush. Hermione glanced over her shoulder; a shiver ran over her skin.

"If you need a hand to hold, all you need to do is ask."

She glared. "I'm not scared—just a bit chilly."

He swished his wand at her in the familiar pattern of a warming charm. "Better?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I could have done that."

"Sure, but you didn't."

From the Baneberry bushes, Hermione heard Tomás' dark chuckle. She rolled her eyes as the two delinquents shared a significant glance.

She needed a distraction, not only from the ominous whistle that still floated through the leaves and over the fog, but to defend her heart from his casual flirtation. She winced as Draco's cruel, prejudiced words from their days as Hogwarts students flashed through her mind like the crack of a whip.

Maybe she could do some digging on how he was managing to keep his classroom in line. Maybe there was a good behavior spell hidden away in the expansive Malfoy libraries.

"How are things in the dungeons? I notice none of your students are out here tonight."

His eyes shifted towards the forest. "Fine. They're too terrified they'll accidentally blow their cauldrons up to misbehave."

"Really? So each and every one of your students is a perfect angel?"

"I wouldn't put it that way. There are a few… questionable fifth years I'd love to straighten out. Little pricks remind me of myself when I was a student."

The whistle grew into a shriek. Draco's eyes hardened, and he jabbed his wand towards the forest. The students stopped their gathering to stare up, round-eyed, at the shuffling leaves.

"Well—" Draco cleared his throat. "—I think that's enough for tonight. Better head back up to the castle."

The boys snatched their bags, one-quarter full of Baneberry, and hustled towards the safety of the high stone walls.

Hermione's wand quivered in her hand. It had been a long time since she'd been involved in any kind of magical combat, but she still remembered some things from the war. She widened her stance and brightened her wandlight.

As she stared, the air shimmered with malevolent light just before three creatures burst out from the trees. Hermione screamed.

"What—oh, slimy mother of Salazar!" Draco spun around to stare down at the trio of Erklings.

They were ugly little things the size of house-elfs, but with a demented visage even Hermione couldn't love. With yellow, toothy grins and horns that seemed disproportionately small over crooked noses that almost touched their chins, they stood menacingly in front of the misty trees. One erlking, presumably the leader of the group, pushed in front of the other two and tapped a hollow stick against the palm of his spindly hand. He stared at the boys with yellow, pupil-less eyes.

It was no surprise that Erklings would be attracted to the Forbidden Forest, with the entire castle full of students next door, but it still boiled Hermione's blood. Erklings were predatory creatures, and especially interested in children.

Hermione glanced back at Tomás and Teddy. If they didn't handle this right, the Erklings would be having first-year soup for dinner tonight.

Draco stepped in front of the boys' retreating backs and poked his wand towards the Erklings. Idiot. Hermione rolled her eyes—she'd known bringing students near the forest was a terrible idea.

If she'd had time, she would have said 'I told you so.'

Beams of red and yellow light shot through the fog and splattered a strange echo of color onto Tomás and Teddy's faces as Hermione ushered them away from the wandfight and towards the safety of the castle.

_SSSsssssssshhhhhhthic._

Something sharp stung Hermione's lower back. She blinked only twice before the world went sideways and she fell face-first on the grass.  
Hermione's brain was a fuzzy haze; she could barely make out the low beep of a monitoring charm and a woman murmuring on her right as she fought her way to the surface. Her eyelids were heavy, but she could almost crack them open.

As she mentally sorted through the sounds around her, she became aware of a steady _thump-thump-thump_ of rhythmically falling footsteps.

"How long before she wakes up?" A masculine voice growled.

A stern, yet somehow warm voice said, "She's awake now. Professor Granger, dear? Can you hear me?"

"I think I'd like a cup of tea." The words tore from her lips of their own volition. Odd. She must have been thirstier than she thought.

She forced her eyelids open and peered out at her surroundings. A standard hospital bed. Mint-green curtains with line-art drawings of potion bottles. Her eyebrows furrowed; that was certainly a change from the stark white drapes she was used to seeing in Hogwarts' hospital wing.

Her eyes fluttered to Madame Pomfrey, who prepared tea in a standard Hogwarts gold-rimmed teacup, and Draco, who had stopped pacing to scrutinize Hermione where she lay tucked into the crisp white sheets. Hermione pulled the blanket up to her chin.

"You hit the ground pretty hard. How's your face?" asked Draco.

"It feels like it was sprayed with mace." She reached up to rub her tender nose. "Are the boys alright?"

She hadn't heard any student voices or seen any hints of spiky turquoise hair since she'd awoken. Hopefully that meant they were back in the Gryffindor tower, and not knocked out cold behind another set of illustrated mint-green curtains.

Draco nodded. "I managed to chase the Erklings off after you went down. The boys are safe in their beds now."

"You got rid of them? But how?"

He didn't have a chance to answer her question, as Madam Pomfrey chose that moment to conjure a floating tray in front of Hermione's chest and place a cup of chamomile tea onto it. "Now, dearest, this ought to settle you. Just take small sips."

Hermione's mouth opened before she could stop it. "Is it made with rose hips?"

Madame Pomfrey tapped a finger to the small cleft in her chin. "It's worse than I feared."

"Dumbledore had a terrific beard." Hermione slapped her hand over her mouth as the realization hit her. Rhymes. She was speaking in rhymes, and she couldn't make it stop.

A suspicious coughing fit came over Draco, and Hermione shot him a glare.

"I'm afraid it's serious. Unfortunately, Erklings are known to cause this type of mischief. They find it amusing to make people rhyme with each other." Poppy Pomfrey shook her head with heavy disapproval. "It'll take at least a week of speech therapy to set it right."

"But I don't have all night!" Hermione scowled. It wouldn't have been so bad if her compulsive rhyming at least made sense. She couldn't stand to sound like an idiot. "What about my Muggle Studies class?"

"You don't have a choice, dear. You need therapy by day and you'll be on a strict potions regiment by night to help the therapy take root. You'll need to be here in case you have any adverse reactions to the medicines. Otherwise, you might spend the rest of your life rocking in a corner, repeating rhyming words."

"That's the worst thing I've ever heard. I can't stay in the hospital wing for an entire week. What about my cat?"

Draco sighed. "I'll take care of your cat and your classes for the week, considering it's technically my fault you're in this predicament in the first place."

"Thanks Draco; you're my saving grace."

His mouth quirked up into a cute little half smirk and he sidled up to her hospital bed. A spark of electricity shot through her as he placed his hand over her forehead. "Hmmm, no fever. I thought I'd never see the day when you'd have nice things to say to me."

"Out with thee. You have Muggle Studies lessons to plan."

"Don't you worry, Granger—by the time they let you out of this place, I will have not only your cat, but your unruly class tucked neatly into line. And that's a Malfoy promise."  
The next day, Draco strolled right up to the edge of her bed at 7 am sharp. "Morning Granger."

"Hello, stranger."

"So, no progress on the rhyming thing, then? I'll just keep talking so you won't be compelled to answer that with your slightly horrifying brand of poetry. I managed to break into your flat to feed your cat. I've decided to house him in my apartment until you're able to care for him again so he doesn't get too lonely. What's your cat's name?"

"If he escapes, I'm not to blame." Hermione bit her lip as she tried to think of a reasonable name that her cat would respond to that wasn't 'Draco Meowfoy.' "Meowy. You can call him Meowy."

"That's a stupid name."

"Well, you're a stupid lame. Erm, person, that is. Don't look at me that way; Erklings made me say it."

Draco smirked at her but didn't say another word; just placed a cup of tea and a white paper bag on her side table and sent her a salute on his way out. The tea was still warm. Two sugars and milk, just as she liked it. She could already smell the poppyseeds and almond from her favorite muffins wafting from the bag. She smiled. Maybe he did pay attention to her, after all.

Just as she put the cup to her lips and closed her eyes to savor the feel of the steam wafting up to her nose, the flutter of wings and the feeling of something small plopping into her lap made her snap them back open, just in time to see Ginny's floofy owl skitter around the room and fly out the window, presumably in search of some more desirable breakfast. Hermione didn't blame him; she didn't want to eat the hospital food, either.

She set down her tea and ran her fingers over Ginny's hasty handwriting. Thank Merlin. Ginny was always reliable for a timely reply, a trait which Hermione greatly appreciated. With a flick of her wand, the envelope opened.

_Hey Hermione!_

_I hate how the school year steals you away for so long. I miss you! Maybe you can come visit during the Christmas hols this year. I know the kids would love to see you. Ron and Wendy, too._

Hermione smiled. She was rather fond of Ron's wife. When Teddy had been a toddler, and Andromeda had allowed Harry to take him for his first overnight visit, Wendy had snuck back to Andromeda's house in the middle of the night to retrieve Teddy's favorite werewolf stuffie when Harry and Ron couldn't get him to stop crying.

_Speaking of kids… I'm pretty sure Teddy's behavior is my brother's fault. I saw him pull Teddy aside the last Sunday dinner before start-of-term, and Teddy came away with a bulging pocket. George probably sees it as a second chance to test his products on Hogwarts students. I almost felt guilty about the howler I sent him, since he's probably trying to relive the glory days he spent with Fred, but of course you don't deserve that._

_Hope that helps!_

_Love, Ginny_

Of course. She should have known. Now the real question: would asking George to kindly cease and desist his encouragement of Teddy's misbehavior help, or make the problem worse?

Hermione took a sip of her tea. Its deep, rich flavor seemed to clear her mind. Worse. Talking to George would make things at least fifty percent worse. Time to go back to the drawing board and come up with a new strategy.  
Hermione scowled at the stale croissant and bowl of wilted fruit Madame Pomfrey had placed on her bedside table. Why was it that even in the magical world, hospital food managed to be completely inedible?

She had only been stuck in the medical wing for two days and she was already being driven out of her mind with boredom, not to mention frustration at her incredibly embarrassing speech patterns.

Of course, they wouldn't be nearly as embarrassing if it weren't for a certain frustratingly handsome blond who would probably never let her live them down. She glanced at the small clock on her bedside table—7:45. Draco was late. He had slipped through the opening of her curtain walls at 7:00 for the last two days to give her an annoyingly smug status report on his "progress" with her responsibilities.

Hermione sighed. She tapped her fingers on her knees. She pushed back all of the curtains around her hospital bed.

She was reaching for the enormous stack of books on effective discipline techniques for unruly cats and classrooms when the door swung open.

"There you are! I was beginning to wonder if my cat hadn't done you in."

Draco scoffed. "I'll have little Meowy eating out of my hand by the end of the week. You'll see."

Hermione rolled her eyes. Typical pure-blooded arrogance. He always thought he could do anything magically-related without even trying. It was like first-year flying lessons all over again.

"Better be. It doesn't take much to get a cat to eat from your hand. Just a bit of tuna."

"Speaking of discipline, guess which Professor has a night off from detention duty?"

"Professor—" Hermione's hand flew over her mouth to obscure the words she couldn't keep in. "—mmoehnngnbooty?"

Draco stopped in his tracks and slowly pivoted to look into her reddening face. "Sorry, were you saying something about my—"

"HERMIONE, dear! I can't believe it! As soon as Professor Trewlaney told me the dreadful news, I came right away." A witch with blonde, bouncing curls bounded into the room.

"What the hay? Lavender? I haven't seen you since Hogwarts." How had Lavender even gained access to the school? She wasn't a teacher here. Hermione looked to Draco; maybe he knew something.

Draco scratched the back of his head; his eyes darted between Lavender and the exit. "I'll just see myself out, then. I've got double the lessons to plan, so—"

"Aw, but Drakey-poo; you never gave me an answer about your order. I'm telling you, I have the most adorable potions-themed set that I think would suit you so perfectly. If you would just let me—"

Hermione cringed; did she have to call him "Drakey-poo"? It was gross; every bit as gross as when Lavender had called Ronald "Won-Won" during their short-lived, yet disgusting, Hogwarts fling.

Draco shot Hermione a look that was half-panicked, half-apologetic as he strode directly through the open door of the hospital wing.

At least one good thing had come from her obnoxious visitor-from watching Lavender and Draco interact, she'd noticed that if two people were talking amongst themselves she wasn't compelled to join in the conversation with terrible rhyming words.

Lavender sunk into the visitor's chair and placed her hand on Hermione's knee. "Hermione, I absolutely love your leggings. You have always had such good taste!"

"Your compliment has been in haste. These are just my pajamas."

Lavender didn't appear as if she'd heard her. "A beautiful witch like you would look simply marvelous in the latest fashions. I was just thinking about you the other day, and how you always had the cutest clothes at Hogwarts. And I thought to myself, 'you know who would absolutely love the chance to have first pick of my stock as it comes out, and also perhaps be interested in being her own boss, and owning her own business? Hermione Granger, that's who!"

"I really don't think I do," Hermione replied, as Lavender waved her wand at a large leather trunk. Hermione's shoulders jumped in alarm as the trunk emitted a sickening gloopy sound and expanded into a wardrobe that took up nearly all the remaining space in the hospital wing. Garishly colored swatches of fabric spilled out from every corner of the trunk, their absurd patterns clashing against themselves.

Now that she thought about it, Hermione remembered seeing pink leggings—with illustrations of china teacups that held various formations of tea dregs in their bowls—peeking out from under Professor Trewlany's robes earlier this week. She made a mental note to corner her least favorite colleague and ask her about it, as soon as she could get out of this blasted hospital wing.

"Now for you, I think a textbook pattern would be lovely. And perhaps this very desirable cat-print legging. And, ah, yes—Voldemort being trampled by Harry Potter's boot. That reminds me! I might even have—"

Hermione felt her jaw drop in horror as Lavender continued her monologue and placed pair after pair of horrendously ugly leggings onto Hermione's bed.

"—there they are! Robes featuring your very own face! So many wonderful options for you. Now, if you buy 4 sets today I can offer them to you at 20% off, but of course if you want to sign up to become a consultant, you can get a whole start-up kit for only 2,000 galleons and go to work for yourself, earning your own money! A smart witch like you would be sure to make a killing at it. You really can't afford not to!"

"That's the last thing I want to do. Please, Lavender. I'm quite happy with my current wardrobe. And my current job." She glanced over to Madam Pomfrey's office door. Any minute now, she should be coming through to work with Hermione on her anti-rhyming therapy. Any minute now.

Lavender pouted. "If you would just try them on, I'm quite sure you'd fall in love with them. They're as smooth as acromantula silk. Go on—give them a feel." She brandished the leggings under Hermione's nose.

"It's like a slippery eel. Please, get it away. I have therapy in a few minutes."

Lavender looked personally offended. "Really Hermione, if any witch was a feminist, I thought it would be you. Don't you believe in supporting other women in their business ventures? In setting your own work hours? Being your own boss?"

"No, I really don't give a toss. Besides, I've heard of your 'company.' I've seen the statistics. It's a pyramid scheme; nobody actually makes money off of it."

"That's only because they're not working hard enough. If they just tried harder, they're basically guaranteed a profit."

Madame Pomfrey bustled into the room with a tray full of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans in the most unappetizing colors imaginable. "Now Lavender, I think Professor Granger has made it quite clear that she's not interested in your wares. Kindly clear off before I tell Headmistress McGonagall you're abusing your privileges here."

Lavender's shoulder's sank. She waved her wand to pack up the trunk of hideous outfits and turned back to Hermione with a forced smile. "Are you sure you don't want to—"

"OUT!" Madam Pomfrey's finger pointed firmly towards the door, and Lavender scurried out of it.

Madam Pomfrey shook her head. "It's a mistake, I keep telling her, to let her in. Nothing but a nuisance, charitable contributions or not."

Understanding dawned on Hermione as Madam Pomfrey gestured at the oddly-patterned curtains. Of course they were Lavender's doing. But why on earth would Headmistress McGonagall, all stern demeanor and strict policies, agree to such nonsense?

"Now, Hermione—remember what I told you yesterday. The best treatment is practice and negative association." The experienced healer wiped her hands over her white apron and settled down in the seat next to the bed.

"Leggings are the new sensation. Or so Lavender seems to think." Hermione grimaced.

"Oh, darling. That's no improvement at all." With a sigh, she plucked a sandy-brown bean from the tray. When Hermione opened her mouth to reply with a terrible rhyme, Madam Pomfrey popped the bean inside and tipped her jaw shut.

Hermione made a face. What was that—flobberworms? Disgusting. She was so distracted by the horror in her mouth that she forgot her compulsion to reply in rhyme.

"Sorry, Dear. I know it's not pleasant. But it's really the only proven way."

"Draco...is…" Hermione swallowed hard. She bit her tongue. She was not going to say it. "...bae."

Madam Pomfrey shook her head and clicked her tongue. "So close. Now open up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Thank you so much to everyone who read, favorited, followed, and especially left reviews on that first chapter! I love hearing what you think, and it always makes me smile to see that you are enjoying it.
> 
> Big thank yous to my betas, Ethan, Bex, and WanderingWordsmith. I'd be lost without you.
> 
> Updates every Tuesday.


	3. Chapter 3

There was a picture on the privacy curtains. Well, there were many pictures, but one in particular that Hermione’s eyes kept flicking back to--one of a small boy setting fire to his teacher’s desk. Hermione frowned. It was going to be a very long week.

She had a stack of books. She had the slow torture of Madam Pomfrey's speech therapy. Other than that, all she had was the maddening beep...beep...beep of the monitoring charm.

And then there was the Draco problem. Every time his face flashed in her mind—every time she grinned at his clever wit or the soft gleam in his eye that shone through when he thought nobody was looking—she felt her defenses fall. It would be all too easy to let go and lose herself in his sarcastic charm and quick wit, but it would be a mistake.

Still, a part of her; that small, hopeful part, clung to the words he’d first said in her classroom five years ago. It had been such a shock, she could still remember the gleam in his eye as he delivered the lecture.

“It is to our benefit to drop our preconceived notions. We must embrace and seek after the wealth of knowledge that Muggles have acquired,” he’d said. “After all, Muggles produced the incomparable Miss Granger, so they must have a lot going right.”

She rolled out of her hospital bed and stuck her bare feet onto the cold stone floor. There was only so much lying in bed a person could take. The disorientation from whatever venom the Erklings had poisoned her with had worn off, and it was time for a change. Clearly she needed one, given the dangerous direction her thoughts had taken. After all, even if she was wrong about the extent of Draco’s prejudices, dating him could end her career. She pushed back her privacy curtains and studied the room.

Lavender's mint-green curtains created several unoccupied rooms at the back of the wing. Hermione rolled her eyes. Ridiculous nonsense. She turned away from the monstrosities to the front of the room. Around her own little booth, there was open space.

A desk. If she could at least have a desk, this week wouldn’t be a total waste. Thank Merlin she’d done well in Transfiguration. With the flick of her wand and a few muttered spells, sticks flew in from an elder tree outside the window. She molded them until she had a satisfactory desk and two armchairs next to a low coffee table. She nodded to herself. Much better.

Now, if only she could find some decent tea, her home-away-from-home would be complete.

Near the front door was a station with tea bags, magazines, and a few straight-backed chairs. As she rummaged through the packets of tea, a picture of Draco Malfoy winked from the cover of a glossy tabloid. The rest of the photograph was obscured by yesterday’s Daily Prophet. She pushed the newspaper aside to reveal Daphne Greengrass, all smiles and curtsies in an emerald ball gown.

Hermione scowled. Pure-bloods. They were always pure-bloods, weren’t they? She couldn’t remember a time when he’d been photographed at a Gala with a half-blood, let alone a Muggle-born. Conflict raged through her mind. When Draco was with her, despite his snark and sarcasm, he treated her as an equal. She hadn’t heard him disparage Muggles or their culture since their Hogwarts days. But dating one? She doubted he was that open-minded.

She scanned the page to find the date that the photograph had been taken. A title in bold print glared up at her from beneath the picture—Is Love in the Air for the Malfoy Heir?

She was so engrossed in the article that she gasped in surprise when Madam Pomfrey bustled through the door with her little tray of horror. “Break’s over, dear! It’s time for another round.”

Hermione replaced The Daily Prophet over Draco’s face before she turned to follow Madam Pomfrey to her transfigured living room.

Two hours and several glasses of water later, after Madam Pomfrey had given Hermione a break for lunch, Draco walked in with a white paper bag.

Hermione closed her copy of Knowing your Kneazle and set it on her coffee table. “Please tell me that’s from Sword in the Scone.”

He settled into one of her transfigured armchairs and placed the bag on her copy of Classroom Management for Dummies. “I mixed it up a little. Don't worry, there aren’t any obnoxious little talking swords; apparently, the cherry scones are the chosen ones.”

The bag made a soft shuffling sound as Hermione reached into it and retrieved a chocolate chip scone. They were still warm.

“I thought you would appreciate a break from the hospital food.” Draco shifted his eyes around the room, presumably to ensure that Madam Pomfrey wasn’t within hearing distance. “I remember what that was like from the Hippogriff incident of third year. Even the threats of my father hearing about it did nothing to improve the quality of the meals I received here. I suspect she does it on purpose; doesn’t want anyone to overstay their welcome.”

“I can see why she’d want that outcome. Oh, drat.” She’d forgotten to try to stop herself. She stuffed the scone into her mouth and closed her eyes as the tiny chocolate chips melted onto her tongue. So much better than Madam Pomfrey’s flavorless soups and stale bread.

Draco smiled as he watched her wipe the crumbs from her chin.

“So, about your cat—”

Hermione raised her eyebrows and continued chewing. Maybe the therapy was working. Maybe it was the mechanics of the curse. Either way, she was grateful that as long as her mouth was occupied she didn’t feel compelled to speak.

“—I’m afraid we may have a problem. Meowy and… my cat have taken a liking to each other. Become quite inseparable, actually. The last couple of nights, I’ve returned to my flat to find them curled around each other on the cat chaise.”

Hermione almost choked on her scone. Cat chaise? And she thought she was an indulgent pet parent.

She wondered if Draco had thought to have his cat spayed. The witch at Magical Menagerie had assured her that all Kneazles sold through her store were fixed, but who knew where Draco had bought his cat. Probably from some uppity breeder who prided themselves on things like pedigree certificates and breed purity.

“On the bright side, Meowy hasn’t tried to run away from my apartment even once in the time I’ve been caring for him. Seems all he needed was a confident masculine influence.”

It was a good thing he had come bearing scones, or she may have hexed him. Instead, she just rolled her eyes and shoved the last bit of scone into her mouth. Sure. It was all about Malfoy’s commanding presence. Definitely had nothing to do Meowfoy’s new-found female companion.

“Speaking of confident influences, Headmistress McGonagall stopped by your classroom this afternoon. She seemed surprised to see me there, so I explained the situation to her. She said she’d drop by to have a chat with you later.”

The last bite of scone stuck in Hermione’s throat like a dry sponge. She’d been so disoriented when she’d first entered the hospital wing that she’d forgotten to notify the Headmistress. When McGonagall appeared not to have noticed, she’d hoped she wouldn’t have to tell her. She'd hoped that McGonagall would never know how out of control things were.

With a wink and a smile, Draco tapped her on the nose and stood to leave. “Well, good chat, Granger. I’ll be around later to report on the state of things.”

She swallowed and brought her finger to the skin he had tapped. “Don’t forget…” Armpit flavored jelly bean. Jalapeno pepper in her mouth. “...the rings.”

“Hey, that was very good! You held off for a whole two seconds. Progress.”

She breathed a sigh of relief when he scurried out of the room too fast to hear her reply, “When you’re around, I’m a mess.”

* * *

When Headmistress McGonagall arrived, Hermione scrambled to her feet.

“Headmistress! I’m so sorry, I should have told you—”

Minerva McGonagall paused and looked down through her spectacles. They were the same silver spectacles she’d worn as the Head of Gryffindor House in Hermione’s school days. Though her face bore a few more lines between her graying eyebrows now, she looked much the same.

“Have a seat, Professor Granger. It seems that we have much to discuss.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “I’m sorry I broke your trust.” She didn’t even try to hold the rhyme back; McGonagall deserved to hear her apology. “I should have sent you an owl or arranged a meeting. I’m so sorry I failed to inform you about my absence in my classroom.”

She felt like a first-year student caught out of bed after curfew. Except this time, the worst thing that could happen wasn’t that she might lose Gryffindor a few house points. No. This time her job was at stake.

“Yes, the lack of communication is troublesome, but it’s not the only reason I’m here. I’m concerned about the number of detention reports that have been filed on behalf of your Muggle Studies students.”

“The detentions have been…” Hermione tried to swallow her compulsive reply. “..prudent.”

“Yes, I’ve read the reports. Explosions in the classroom? Magical creatures set loose? From the sound of it, your first-year course has been a regular madhouse. I’m afraid it begs the question—how are your pupils able to learn?”

Her therapy forgotten, Hermione wiped a silent tear from the corner of her eye. “I’ve tried to be stern. I don’t understand why the detentions aren’t working. I’ve never had students who were so determined to break the rules.”

“Do you think that daily Muggle Studies classes are too much? Hogwarts didn’t offer Muggle Studies to first-year students at all until you campaigned for it. And to require daily lessons… it’s unprecedented. Maybe there’s a reason.”

“Please, give me one more season. I fought so hard for this because it’s so important. Lack of education, of real representation of what it’s like to live as a Muggle, does so much harm. Wizards need to understand Muggles in order to appreciate them. And when I get them as first-years, they’re still so moldable, so impressionable.”

All her work, all her pleas with the school governors to allow her to reform the Muggle Studies program. It could all be over if she couldn’t figure out how to fix it.

McGonagall’s eyes grew soft. “I’ll give you until the end of the semester, and then we will reassess. I hope to see your classroom under control by then.”

“Thank you, again. I won’t disappoint you.”

As Headmistress McGonagall turned to leave, Hermione reached for the book on her coffee table. There had to be an answer in Discipline for Dummies, and she would read until her eyes bled to find it.

* * *

  
  
  
  


A few hours later, the mouth-watering smell of pot roast wafted to Hermione's room from the Great Hall. She bookmarked her page and glued her eyes to the door of the hospital wing. Sure enough, it soon swung open to admit a familiar set of high cheekbones and silver eyes. Draco bore a steaming platter and a smug grin.

“I have to say, Professor Granger, that I find your class most delightful. I’ve never seen a better-behaved set of first years.”

Hermione glared at Draco as he delivered the dinner tray to her small end table. “I’m surprised you haven’t had to..” she swallowed. “...box their ears.” She shoved her fork into the juicy roast Draco had pirated from the Great Hall. It was so unfair; as soon as she was gone, her class behaved like perfect little angels. Maybe she was the problem, after all. Maybe despite all her book learning, she wasn’t good at dealing with people.

Draco tapped his temple. “It all comes down to classroom management techniques. That, and having an intimidating teacher face.” Draco demonstrated the sneer he had perfected as a little snot. “It always shuts them up; even that infuriating trio of fifth-year Slytherins.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and chewed her dinner, savoring its rich flavors. She doubted that glaring would reform his Slytherins. From what she understood, they clung to blood prejudices like dragons hoarding gold. Then again, it was possible that deep down, Draco didn’t care about that.

He sat in the chair next to her and flipped through the top book in her stack. “It’s a lucky thing I managed to avoid Miss Brown yesterday. Didn’t give you too hard of a time, did she?”

Hermione snorted through her bite of potato.

“Did you know, just last week she was chasing Headmistress McGonagall around with magical wrinkle cream? Part of the Mandrake + Fields product line, I’m afraid. And now it’s on to those dreadful leggings.” Draco shook his head. “I have half a mind to put an order in, just to get her off my robes for a while.”

Now that was a funny mental image--Draco stalking the classroom, his crisply-pressed oxford tucked into a pair of argyle leggings.

“Ah, you like that do you, my little mute?” He rose to his feet. “I’ve got to get going—lesson planning and cat wrangling and whatnot. But I’ll be back soon. I’ll give little Meowy a kiss for you.”

He reached over the pile of textbooks and squeezed her hand, then turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

As she watched the swish of his robes as he walked away, she willed her heart to slow its rapid beating. Even if he was sincere, even if he was reformed enough to be open to dating a Muggle-born, it couldn’t happen. Headmistress McGonagall was a few detentions away from pulling the plug on Hermione’s Muggle Studies project. Breaking school policy was out of the question.

  
  
  


On Wednesday, Draco once again brought her meals and talked at her while she consumed them. She was grateful for the food, and not only for its quality. She wasn't eager to spew out her conflicted feelings in rhyme like a moody fifth-year with a poetry habit.

By Thursday, the mildly traumatic speech therapy seemed to be taking root. Her morning conversation with Draco had been rhyme-free, although she had to leave several sentences unfinished.

She didn't regret the time she'd spent studying classroom management techniques this week. It was the responsible thing to do. Still, she itched to unravel The Mystery of the World’s Ugliest Leggings. If she hadn’t been so terrified of being fired on the spot, she would have asked McGonagall about Madam Pomfrey's comment. Something about McGonagall giving Lavender “privileges” at Hogwarts, possibly due to charitable contributions? It didn’t seem like the whole story.

Hermione wasn't eager to see McGonagall’s critical glare trained on her again, but there was always Professor Trewlaney. 

Professor Trelawney's book was one Hermione preferred to keep firmly shut. That story had been discontinued back in third year when Hermione walked out of Divination and never returned. Adjectives such as “ridiculous,” “nonsensical,” and “delusional” didn’t belong on the pages of a Hogwarts Professor.

Still, if she wanted information on Lavender Brown, Professor Trelawney was a safe bet. If anyone had an affinity for illustrated leggings, it would be her. Hermione scribbled a note onto parchment and asked Madam Pomfrey to attach it to the nearest owl. With any luck, she’d soon have some answers.

* * *

  
  
  


After her Thursday evening therapy session, Draco came predictably through the door. The savory smell of fresh-baked chicken pot pie followed him.

“I have a surprise for you today.”

“You’d like to—” A flashback of a particularly nasty haggis-flavored bean ghosted over her tongue. “What is it?”

He tossed her a package wrapped in gold paper. “Open it and see.”

The package was soft, like the sweaters Mrs. Weasley always knitted for Christmas. As Hermione peeled back the paper, it revealed a pattern of tiny kittens chasing balls of yarn.

“Draco. You shouldn’t have.” She pulled out a pair of leggings. They were exactly the type of leggings Lavender had tried to peddle to her on Monday morning.

He flashed her a mischievous grin. “I know, I know, no need to thank me. Your wearing them will be all the gratitude I require.” His grin grew until she was afraid it might split his face in two.

“They’ll make me look like a squire. Oh, drat.” She’d been so flustered, she’d forgotten all about stinky-cheese flavored jelly beans.

“I won’t tell Madam Pomfrey about your little slip-up if you promise to have those on under your robes next Monday.”

“No deal. The only light these will be seeing will be the light of the moon. They're going straight into my pajama drawer.”

“Suit yourself. But you’re going to have to prove that they’re getting their use, or I will be heartbroken.” He placed his hand over his chest in a sarcastic gesture.

“Fine. You can see my cat pajamas when you return Meowy this weekend. I’m sure the poor little fluff-ball is missing his mama.”

Draco scoffed. “Right. I’ve been taking excellent care of your cat, Granger. He wants for nothing. I'm willing to bet he'll miss Fu—, that is, my cat so much that he manages his first escape all week the very night he returns home.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve been researching. I’ll have you know I have quite a few Kneazle containment tricks up my sleeve.”

“Two pairs.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I bet you two pairs of leggings that you don’t. If little Meowy is howling his name at my door at 3 AM tomorrow, I get to buy you two more pairs of hideous leggings. And you’ll have to wear them. In class.”

“I’ll take that bet. But if you lose, I get to buy you three pairs of leggings, which you must also wear in class.”

“Three? That’s hardly fair.”

“Three… plus a tie. You already bought me one pair, when you had earned no right to do so. So I get three, with the tie as a bonus to make up for your presumptuousness.”

“Presumptuous—why Granger, I’m wounded. For an entire week, I've taken care of your cat, your class, and your meals. I think I’ve earned the right to present you with a gift of my choosing.” He gestured to the leggings on Hermione’s lap. “Though I have to say, I’m a little disappointed it’s about to come to an end. All the extra work was worth it for daily dinner dates with the loveliest Professor at Hogwarts.”

Hermione swallowed. She wished he would stop flirting with her—it was hard not to get her hopes up. The image of Daphne Greengrass curtsying in her emerald ball gown flashed through her mind. “I’m not sure you could call talking at me while I shoveled food in my mouth a dinner date.”

Draco stood from his chair and sent her a final wink before he started towards the door.

* * *

  
  
  


Wind screeched through the cracks in the hospital wing’s heavily-draped window. The sharpness of it made Hermione’s eyes fly open to stare into the darkness.

Nighttime in the hospital wing was always eerie. Tonight was worse than usual, with the howling wind and frigid air. 

Not only was she completely alone as the only overnight patient, but the room seemed to be full of miserable energy. Hermione stared into the darkness and wondered if anyone had ever died there.

That was a stupid question. Of course people had died there.

She tried to think of something else; anything else. The apologetic look in Teddy’s eyes when he’d come to visit her earlier that afternoon. Tomás’ satisfied smirk when Draco had entered the room levitating four platters of food.

Anything. Anything but the ghostly silence between the beep… beep… beeps of her monitoring charm.

A chill ran up her spine as a faint scuffling sound skittered across the cold stone floors. She wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, a student’s wayward pet rat, or something more sinister. She shook her head, frustrated with herself. This was the trouble with imagining things; it always led to trouble.

Her eyes jumped uselessly around the room. The privacy curtains, which she had replaced around her bedside in an attempt to stave off the chilly night air, obscured any moonlight that could have sneaked in through the window. She couldn’t even see her hand in front of her face.

She pressed her eyes shut and turned over in her bed. If she didn’t get some rest, she’d have to eat extra jelly beans in her therapy sessions tomorrow. She still wasn’t over that boot-flavored bean she’d had yesterday.

The curtains made a quiet swishing sound that raised the hairs on Hermione’s arm.

And what was that smell? Whiskey? Rum?

She was just about to reach for her wand and cast a Lumos when a cold, bony hand latched onto her wrist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I so appreciate everyone who has been reading this story. Your enthusiasm for it is everything to me, and your comments make my day. Thank you.


	4. Chapter 4

“Aaaaaaaghhhh!” Hermione screamed as she jumped from her bed. The sound of wood clattering against stone echoed off the walls of the hospital wing. A chill ran up Hermione’s spine. In her haste to confront her attacker, she’d knocked her wand to the floor.

“SSShhhh! The spirits will be disturbed,” came a whisper near Hermione’s legs.

“Spirits! The last thing I’m worried about are spirits! Who are you and what are you doing in my room?” Hermione’s heart raced. Without her wand, she felt naked. Helpless. She blinked into the darkness, but she couldn’t make out her visitor’s shadow.

“You sent for answers. Those who seek answers must respect the spirits.”

Wait. Hermione knew that whisper.

“...Trelawney?” It had been a long time since Hermione had been subject to Sybill Trewlaney’s phony, wavering voice. It was a difficult thing to forget.

The floor was like ice under Hermione’s knees as she fumbled for her wand. Crazy woman, coming up to her in the dark, unannounced. Was she trying to give her a heart attack? All that time spent reading tea leaves would drive anyone batty, but this? This was beyond that.

A soft, pink glow illuminated Hermione’s hands against the dusty floor. She snatched her wand and stood to see Trewlaney’s enormous glasses glowing in the light of an orb she had suspended in the air.

“Midnight is the time when the spirits are the loudest. If you gaze into the ball, they will speak to you. What answers do you seek? Speak, and the ball will answer.” 

“No, no, no, when I wrote to you I wasn’t looking to have my fortune told. I was only wondering—”

“Hush, dear, your voice grates on them.” She sighed, and the smell of sherry on her breath stung Hermione’s nose. “You never were gifted with the Sight. I will do it myself.”

Trewlaney made a high humming sound in the back of her throat. Smokey mist shimmered and flowed inside the crystal ball. It looked like a whole lot of nothing.

“Yes, yes, I see now. You are in danger, Professor Granger. Great, great danger. Someone has been lying to you. Someone you depended on. Three blessings will mark their deception.”

Well, that confirmed it. She was still every bit as unhinged as she had been in third year, and still overly fond of predicting doom. Hermione was about to turn on the lights and evict her visitor when she remembered. 

Lavender. The leggings. Trelawney might be a fraud, but she had to know something about Lavender. Hermione just needed to speak her language.

“Actually, I do have a question. Recently I’ve been gifted with a… fascinating clothing item. I feel as if it’s trying to tell me something.”

Trewlaney’s eyes widened behind her glasses. “A gift? Gifts can be very telling. Will you allow me to see?”

“Erm, yes. Hold on.” She’d shoved the leggings into the trunk under her bed. They sat at the top, over a set of robes and her classroom planner. “Here it is.”

Trewlaney snatched them and held them up to the soft light of the crystal ball. With her wide eyes and greedy fingers, she looked like a mouse with a hunk of cheese.

“Yes. Yes, I see what these are telling me.” She pointed at one of the yarn balls near the ankle. “Roundness. A sense of wholeness. Whoever gave you these wants you to feel peace. But these…” Her long, dirty fingernail pointed to the tabby cat that pawed at the yarn ball. “Will unravel you. Yes, you must do much unraveling before you find your peace.”

Hermione ground her teeth. This was not going as planned. So far she had wasted plenty of sleep and received no answers. She scanned the pants until she found a cat chasing a purple ball of yarn. “I have another question. This color has been coming up a lot in my life. What does that mean?”

“Lilac. The color of passion. The desire for quiet. Yes, I can see—”

“No, not lilac. It’s Lavender. Lav-en—”

Trewlaney held up that disgusting fingernail. “Sssshhh. I sense that I am needed elsewhere. Yes, the spirits call me away.” She cradled the crystal ball and laid the leggings on Hermione’s pillow. 

“Beware the one with the scheming smile. They will be your undoing.”

And just like that, the light from the crystal orb disappeared behind the thick privacy curtains and Hermione was left in the dark.

* * *

  
  
  


On Friday, as Hermione was packing her stack of textbooks into her trunk, Harry and Ron busted through the door of the hospital wing. “Hermione! McGonagall told us everything. I’m so sorry, we should have come sooner.”

A glint from Ron’s golden wedding band pulled at Hermione’s heart. It had been a good thing, a logical thing, for her and Ron to end their young relationship. Despite their chemistry and friendship, they hadn’t been right for each other.

It had become painfully obvious when Ron had started dreaming of weddings and babies, and Hermione started dreaming of tackling the Wizarding world’s prejudice problem from the ground up. 

They wanted different things. They needed different people. 

So when Ron had met Wendy and fallen wand over boots, she’d been happy for them. She’d only wished she’d find her own perfect fit someday. 

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve been perfectly fine. Honestly, I preferred not to have visitors. Visitors meant speaking.” Hermione shuddered. What if she had slipped and said something humiliating about Draco’s bum in front of Harry and Ron?

Despite all of the good Draco had done since the war, Ron still didn’t care for him. Hermione could only imagine what he’d have to say if he knew she fancied him.

Harry gave a sympathetic nod. “Those Erklings are nasty creatures. Actually, Ron and I have come up on assignment. McGonagall’s put in a request—we’re clearing the forest of some of the more dangerous creatures. About time, too.”

“What, you mean she doesn’t think it’s a good idea to let ugly little elves who like to eat children lurk in the woods next to a school?” Hermione chuckled as she moved to stuff the cat leggings into her trunk. Honestly, McGonagall was lucky Harry and Ron were even available. They were the busiest field Aurors in the ministry, often occupied with classified assignments.

Ron’s freckled hand darted out and latched onto the buttery-smooth fabric. “Hold on. Is that what I think it is? Lulawitch? Don’t tell me they’ve gotten to you, too. Please don’t tell me you’re going to try to sell me a merpeople tie.”

“Ha! No. I didn’t buy these.”

“If you didn’t buy them, why are you shoving them into your bag?” 

“They were a gift. From—a nosy neighbor who thought it was funny to afflict me with them.”

Ron lifted his hand to his chin. “Hermione, your cheeks are going all red. Are you sure there isn’t something you need to tell us?”

“There is absolutely nothing to tell.”

And there never would be, because there never could be. Hermione frowned. She’d been tempted to shove the tabloid with Draco’s picture on it into her trunk this morning. She could pin it onto her bedroom wall as a reminder of how wrong he was for her.

Harry reached over to give Hermione’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’m glad you didn’t get sucked into that whole Lulawitch business. Lavender was over at Grimmauld Place last week trying to enlist Ginny. Told her she should buy her own stock so she could 'work from home and still spend time with the kids.’” Harry held his fingers up into quotation marks and rolled his eyes at Lavender’s words. “I think Ginny hexed some of her stuff neon orange.”

“Nah, it was probably already like that,” said Ron. 

The zipper on the beaded bag made a satisfying sound as Hermione whipped it closed. “Speaking of, do you know anything about Lavender’s deal with McGonagall? Apparently she has special permission to come into the school and bully people into buying her garbage. It’s infuriating.”

Harry shrugged. “Deep down, McGonagall’s always had a soft spot for Gryffindors.”

Hermione’s eyes flashed to Ron, who stood over the tray of jelly beans left over from her last speech therapy session. 

“Oh, Ron, I wouldn’t—”

Ron popped a bean into his mouth, chewed it once, and spit it back out. “What is that, head cheese? What have they been feeding you in here?”

Of course he would pick a brain-flavored bean. Hermine shook her head. Good old reliable Ron, still as impulsive and hungry as he had been since Hogwarts. “As much as I’d love to hang around and catch up with you two, I’ve seen enough of these awful curtains to last me the rest of my life. So, If you don’t mind—”

“Oh! Of course. You should show us your classroom,” Harry said.

Ron’s shoulders lifted along with the corners of his mouth. “Hey! Do you have a class today? We could make an appearance. Be your special guest speakers.”

“Thanks, guys, but I’m having enough trouble with Harry’s godson as it is. I’m afraid your presence might be even more disruptive. Draco thinks—”

“Hold on, Draco? Are you on first-name basis now?” Ron raised his eyebrows. He was probably thinking of the last time he’d seen Draco, at last year’s winter gala. Hermione had failed so spectacularly at keeping her glares away from him and his date that even Ron had commented. 

“Professor Malfoy thinks—you know what, nevermind. Maybe you should come. You can give Teddy the evil eye when he flirts with detention.”

* * *

  
  
  


Harry’s evil eye, it turned out, left something to be desired. He was too soft.

When Teddy slipped Hermione a joke wand while her back was turned, Harry only grinned. 

When Tomás demonstrated the fist-sized fireball he had been perfecting all year during the middle of the pop quiz, Harry was impressed.

Anger flared in Hermione’s heart. She knew better. She’d known how this would go. She should have put her foot down and told the boys ‘no’. Now she would have to spend another night in detention with Draco. A shiver that held both delight and dread tingled down her spine.

Even with all her inner turmoil, Draco was the least of her worries. The end of term was only two months away, and she was no closer to being in control of her classroom. McGonagall would not be pleased.

Hermione tapped at the blackboard with her wand, and a picture of a cat poised with his paws over a piano keyboard appeared. 

Ron’s face lit up. “Wicked! Did Muggles teach that cat to play the piano?”

Hermione’s palm met her face. She took a deep breath to the count of three. It did not make her irritation disappear.

Throughout the entire class period, Ron had been acting like a child who was discovering internet memes for the first time. Which, she supposed he was. But did he have to do it so loudly?

What was it that she’d read in  _ Discipline for Dummies _ about this kind of situation? Right. Deal with the problem head-on. “Ronald, in the hallway. Now.”

Ron shot Harry a look as he stood and followed Hermione outside the room. 

“I realize that you might not have known this, but I’m having enough trouble keeping this class under control as it is. So if you can’t be quiet, you’re going to have to leave.”

“But what about our speech? I thought you were going to let Harry and I—”

“Do you have a speech prepared? Does it have to do with my current unit of study?”

“Well, no, but—”

Harry walked out into the hallway, his eyes turned down towards his shoes. “Hermione? Look, I’m really sorry about all this. I know you’re trying to teach, and we’re distracting you.” He clapped his hand on Ron’s shoulder. “I think we’d better go.” 

Harry’s face was repentant, and it filled Hermione with guilt. It wasn’t their fault. 

She hadn’t told them about the detentions. They didn’t know her job was on the line. “It’s fine. I’ll see you at the winter gala?” 

Harry nodded, but Ron shook his head. “I’ll be in Poland for the gala.”

“Let me guess. Classified again?” Hermione said. It had been this way for years. Ron’s schedule was always full of dates and countries, with no further detail or explanation. 

“Yeah, but I’ll be back for Christmas. Would hate to miss Wendy’s gooseberry pie.” 

“Ah, that’s too bad. I was counting on you to keep me laughing.” Hermione’s heart sank. Ron would have been the perfect distraction from Draco and his inevitably pure-blooded date.

“Well, Harry will be there. And who knows? Maybe you’ll have a date.” Ron nudged her with his elbow. 

Hermione grimaced. There was no way she’d be going to the gala with the only wizard she wanted to take.

After she hugged the boys goodbye and returned to her classroom, the energy had died down. She didn’t see a single sign of flames or joke shop products, but the damage was done. The smirk Tomás sent Teddy as she handed them their detention slips was congratulatory. Victorious.

Hermione threaded her fingers through her hair and pulled at the roots. How could she reform students who wanted to be in trouble?

* * *

  
  
  


Fifty minutes. Hermione had fifty minutes left until her third-year Muggle Studies class. If she ran, she could make it to Magical Menagerie and be back in time for class.

She wouldn’t have time to stop by tonight since the shop closed well before she’d be finished supervising detention. Again. And if she wanted even the tiniest shred of hope to win her bet with Draco, she needed to get there today. Otherwise, Meowfoy would escape again and Hermione would be the reluctant recipient of two more pairs of leggings.

Her breath came out in hurried puffs as she jogged down the final leg of sidewalk that led to the pet shop in front of her flat.

Normally she would stop to watch the creatures in the window, but she didn’t have time. She walked right up to the counter and plopped down her copy of  _ Knowing Your Kneazle _ .

“I’ve looked everywhere in this book. I’ve read every word of every paragraph. There is no mention anywhere of how to keep Kneazles from escaping apartments.”

Dr. Calamity narrowed her eyes and set her palms flat on the counter. A strand of hair from her salt-and-pepper bob wiggled out from behind her ear and rested on her cheek. 

Now that was a woman with a respectable book. Ever since she’d first met her when she’d purchased Meowfoy from her shop years ago, she’d trusted her completely. Hermione thought of Dr. Calamity as knowledgeable, straight-forward, and blunt. Exactly the traits she admired in someone she went to for advice.

“Keep you Kneazle inside? Whatever for?” 

“Well, because he keeps getting out.” 

Dr. Calamity’s eyebrows drew together. “Kneazles have an inquisitive nature. They aren’t meant to be kept indoors.”

Hermione chewed the inside of her cheek. That’s what she had thought with Crookshanks. She’d let him wander all over the school, all over her neighborhood. He’d been a free cat. But then one day, he never came home. 

“I’d like to keep mine in.” She couldn’t lose Meowfoy. This time she knew better, and she’d never be able to forgive herself if something happened to him.

“I see.” Dr. Calamity moved to a row of pint-sized barrels. “Sage is going to be your best bet.” She reached for a handful and wrapped it in yesterday’s Daily Prophet. “Hang it over your door. It should discourage him from crossing the threshold.”

* * *

  
  
  


Later that evening, Draco shook his head as he watched Teddy and Tomás scurry out of the Great Hall. Wrinkles puckered their hands from being made to scrub every inch of the floor with a Muggle sponge. “It was almost a perfect week, you know. Not a single detention until today.” 

Hermione puffed the air out of her lungs. “Yes, well, if Harry hadn’t been egging them on—”

“You know what I think?”

“No, pray tell; what does the great Draco Meow—er, Malfoy think?” 

He poked the end of her nose. “You need to work on your angry face. They’re not intimidated by you.”

“There’s nothing the matter with my angry face.”

Draco swept his open palm towards her. “Then please, demonstrate.”

She glared at him. 

“See? I am not in the least bit intimidated by that face. In fact, that face makes me rather inclined to invite you to my flat for tea, not cower in my dragonhide boots.”

Her arms crossed over her chest. “Well, how would you do it, then?”

“You have to use your anger. Push all your frustration out through your eyes. Now, I believe you made me a promise, which I intend to cash in on.” 

Hermione scowled. She was hoping he’d forgotten about the cat leggings. She practiced her angry face again as he held out his arm, apparently in an offer to escort her back to Hogsmeade. 

“Hmmm, that’s a bit better. Don’t forget to look down your nose. Tricky, I know, when I’m so much taller than you. It'll be easier when you’re dealing with first years.” 

Her breath caught as she linked her arm through his elbow and they walked towards the door. 

“That’s it, Granger. Come on, I’ll take you home and get you your cat. Try not to compose any poetry along the way.”

She shot him a half-hearted glare, too distracted by his warmth to muster up any real enmity. Her speech problem was the last thing on her mind. She was too busy trying to ignore the spark that ran up her arm and chased the air from her lungs.

She should step away. Ron had been all wrong for her, and Draco was even worse. They wanted different things. They came from different cultures. It was a bad idea to allow this kind of contact. 

But if she objected, how would that make her look? What could she say to explain her behavior?

After all, it wasn’t that out of the ordinary. She’d walked arm-in-arm with Harry and Ron many times before, and they were only friends. That’s all this was. Draco was being a friend. The thought made her heart warm in an unexpected way. It surprised her how much she liked the idea. For a moment she let herself forget about the prejudice written all over his book and allowed herself to enjoy the moment.

After half an hour of light banter and laughter in the late September air, they reached their shared hallway. Even though she’d been with him all evening, it felt like it was over too soon.

“I’ll get little Meowy, and you can go change into the lovely gift I so thoughtfully bought for you.” 

She wasn’t going to dignify that with a response, but it appeared she was going to go ahead and do what he requested. She rolled her eyes at herself as she pulled on a black tee-shirt and the ugly, feline-riddled leggings. They slid over her legs like melted butter.

_ Tap, tap, tap. Hisssssssssssss. _

Hermione snorted and crossed the living room carpet to her front door. She opened it to find an irritable Draco holding… an irritable Draco. Draco the cat hissed and squirmed and scratched as Draco the man stepped inside and shut the door with his foot. 

Hermine put her hand to her mouth to stifle her giggle. For all the airs he put on, even Draco had a difficult time handling his namesake.

“That infernal cat. I had to practically tear him away from the cat tower. He was all scrunched into the little compartment, guarding my cat as if I was going to catnap her and take her to Dr. Calamity.” Draco put the cat down, who immediately turned and began scratching the door with his razor-sharp claws.

“Draco!” Hermione scolded. 

“What? Your cat’s behavior is not my fault. I think he was with me too long; he got too comfortable. Now he doesn’t want to leave.”

A low growl from Meowfoy set Hermione’s teeth on edge. “Fantastic.” She waved her wand at his claws to dull them and prevent any further door damage. “It’s going to be nearly impossible to keep him inside.” Also nearly impossible for her to win her bet. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would block out the visions of tacky pants that raced through her mind.

“Good luck with that. I’d offer my help, but I noticed a pair of leggings featuring Hogwarts: A History that I’m dying to take off Lavender’s hands so I can see them on your legs.” He ran his eyes down Hermione’s cat leggings. “Goodnight, Granger. See you at three in the morning when you’re dragging your cat away from my doorstep and losing our bet.”

Right. She was not going to let that happen. She pulled the sage out of her bag and hung it over the door as soon it clicked shut behind the wizard who was becoming increasingly present in the daily chatter of her mind.

* * *

  
  


  
  


She was having the most wonderful dream. Blonde hair feathered between the crevices of her fingers; a straight, pale nose roamed along the juncture of her jawline. “Mmmmm…. Draco.”

His fingernails sharpened into claws and scraped against the skin on her back. “Hey! What the—”

She rolled over to her side and pushed into a sitting position. A tall figure loomed at the foot of her bed. Oh, crap. She was definitely not going to get to buy Draco a ridiculous tie. 

“As you can see, I win. I don’t know how you slept through the yowling fuss he was making. But maybe if you tell me what you were dreaming about, I’ll teach you how to properly ward your door.”

She groaned into the stuffy night air. Had she said his name out loud? Please let her not have said his name out loud. She couldn’t even blame it on the cat, since she had still somehow managed to keep his name a secret. She’d never live it down if he were to find out. 

“Fine. Buy me whatever you want, I don’t care. I’m going back to sleep.” She hid her cheeks in her pillow, even though the darkness of her bedroom was enough to cover her blush.

His throaty chuckle and retreating footsteps echoed through her flat as she pulled the covers up to her chin. She half-hoped that if she fell asleep quickly, he would come back to her in her dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my wonderful betas, Bex, Gallagher8, and wanderingwordsmith.
> 
> And, of course, thank you to everyone who has shown support for this story by reading, leaving kudos, and leaving me love in the comment box. Your enthusiasm means the world to me.


	5. Chapter 5

_Tick-tick-tick-tick._

The clock echoed through the Muggle Studies room. Hermione ran her eyes over the cleared counters and the washed blackboard. Everything was perfect, except—she flicked her wand at Tomás’ abandoned desk. There _._ Now each and every row sat in a straight line.

Her classroom was just like her weekend had been. Quiet. Lonely. She’d seen no sign of Draco—not in the hall, not on the sidewalk between their building and the bakery. Not anywhere. He hadn’t even popped by to tease her about saying his name in her sleep. She was beginning to think he hadn’t heard.

Or maybe he had. Maybe it made him so uncomfortable that he didn’t want to see her, even when she had chased her cat down the hall three separate times on Sunday.

It was probably better that way. Less temptation. And if she was lucky, he’d forget all about the leggings and their bet.

Hermione pinched off a piece of her poppyseed muffin and popped it onto her tongue. As she chewed, she shifted through her bag for her students’ assignments and placed them on her desk. Some of the pages curled up at the edges, as they’d been rolled like parchment. She smiled to herself and ironed the stack with her hands.

That had been one of her favorite victories for the Muggle Studies program. Paper instead of parchment, pens instead of quills. Why not introduce wizards to Muggle technology, when it was so easy to do?

She savored the sweet taste of almond from her muffin and poised her red-ink pen over the top page.

_Teddy Lupin_

_Computer Science 101_

_The internet is a sort of rectangular crystal ball, which Muggles enjoy staring at until videos of cats running away from cucumbers turn their brains to mush._

It wasn’t wrong. Not exactly the answer she was looking for, but—

_Whump._

Hermione blinked. A squishy, rectangular package wrapped in rainbow-striped paper had landed on Teddy’s essay.

A shadow fell over her desk, along with the scent of magical dry cleaning and cedarwood. Draco. She hated that she knew his smell.

Hermione crinkled the paper between her fingers. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Why don’t you open it and find out?”

Draco smirked down at her. She shoved her finger under the flap and ripped the package open.

Hermione wrinkled her nose. The leggings were a muddy brown, with a variety of realistic potions ingredients. Lacewing flies, fluxweed, boomslang skin, bicorn horn… leeches?

She shoved them across the desk with her fingertips. “Who in their right mind would put leeches on leggings?”

He pressed his lips into a thin line, but the corners still twitched. “Don’t you get it? They’re the ingredients to—”

“Polyjuice Potion, yes, I know. Well, congratulations. You’ve found the ugliest article of clothing to ever curse the earth.”

His shoulders shook as he leaned forward to examine them. Oh Merlin _._ Were those tears forming in the corners of his eyes?

“Don’t pop a blood vessel. Laugh if you must.”

His laugh, warm and deep, reverberated around the room. Hermione allowed herself a smile as she reached for the second pair, still nestled in the paper on her desk.

Oh. Tiny copies of _Hogwarts: A History_ sat in neat rows over a black background. She squinted at the pages. They were so detailed, she could almost make out the words. She looked up to his face, where it towered over her worn wooden desk.

“I actually don’t hate these. I wouldn’t want to wear them in public, but they’d make decent pajamas. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but—thank you.”

Draco grinned. “You’re welcome. Just for that, I might be willing to help you with your cat problem.”

Hermione swallowed. The memory of Draco’s arm linked in hers when they had walked home together last weekend still burned in her memory. It didn’t need a friend.

But if she couldn’t keep Meowfoy inside... Well. Better to take control than risk another surprise visit to her bedroom in the middle of the night.

She tapped her fingers on the desk. “What do you have in mind?”

“I’ll show you, next time your methods fail and Meowy is scratching my door down.” He turned towards the door. “And don’t forget—if I don’t see those leggings on you tomorrow, I’m paying Miss Brown another visit.”

Her red ink pen scratched over the student’s essays until the clock struck eight. There. He was sure to be relaxing in his flat, curled up with his cat and doing Merlin-knows-what. Most importantly, he was sure to be out of the halls and therefore out of her way.

She packed her things into her beaded bag and headed home.

Outside her front door, Hermione wrung her hands. How to do this? How to slip in without letting Meowfoy out?

Hermione cracked open the door and peeked through. No sign of him. She shoved her body between the door and the frame. The door opened another inch, then—

_Mrrrrroooooowww!_

The door flew open and a weight landed on her head, sharp claws digging into her scalp. 

“Aaarrgh!” She spun around and threw her arms above her head. The weight vanished, and a flash of cream and charcoal fur landed in the hall. _Crap._ He must have been waiting for her on the bookshelf above the door.

Meowfoy darted down the hallway and mewed at door B9.

“Draco! Get over here this instant!”

Hermione grimaced. She always forgot to use his nickname at the worst possible time. _Meowy, Meowy, Meowy._ If she thought it enough times, it was bound to stick.

Draco swung the apartment door open. “You called?”

Ugh, why couldn’t she have named her cat “Whiskers” like a normal person? _Meowy, Meowy, Meowy_. 

Meowfoy pointed his tail straight at the ceiling and sauntered forward. Fur met fur as he rubbed cheeks with Draco’s long-haired tortoiseshell. Purrs from the pair rang out through the hallway like a couple of car engines.

“I'd like to collect on your promise now,” Hermione said.

“Promise?”

“Yes, promise. The one where you teach me how to keep this—” she scratched behind Meowfoy’s ears “—inside.”

She scooped up her cat and marched down the hall. Meowfoy’s ears flattened. He shifted his weight and dug his claws into her robes. Ornery thing. Hermione tightened her hold on his ribs.

Meows and murmurs sounded from Draco’s end of the hallway before his door clicked shut and he followed behind her.

Once all three were shut inside, Draco examined the front door. His eyebrows furrowed as he ran his fingers over the bundle of sage. “What’s this for?”

“It’s sage. To keep Meowy from escaping.”

“I know it’s sage.” Draco scoffed. “Sage is used in cleansing, for evicting poltergeists or for infected wounds. It pushes things out. I’ve never heard of it keeping something in.”

Hermione shrugged. “Well, that’s what Dr. Calamity told me to do. If you know so much, what’s your grand idea?”

“Have you tried a Kneazle containment ward?”

“I’ve tried all sorts of wards.” Hermione crossed her arms.

“Yes, but regular wards are designed for wizards. You need one designed for cats.”

“Why don’t the books mention that?”

His snicker managed to both irritate and captivate her. “Old family secret. My Great Aunt Felis invented it. Come over here, and I’ll show you.”

He held his arms out as if he expected her to step into them, and her heart pounded. It was too late to back out now. She sidled up next to him and stared at the new claw marks in the wood.

Draco cocked his head. “Not there. Here.” He pointed to the floor in front of him. “I’ve never taught this to anyone before. It’s fairly complicated.”

With a curt nod, she stepped between him and the door.

He wrapped his hand around hers, his skin soft and warm. “The motion goes like this—” His hand guided her wand in a long series of swirls and jabs.

She swallowed. Hermione Granger never had trouble learning a new spell. This would be the first, humiliating time.

“—and then the incantation: _Cattus Continentiam_. Why don’t you give it a try?” His breath was hot on her ear.

“Sorry, how did that go again?” Hermione swiveled her head to face Draco, and instantly regretted it. His nose was inches away, and he grinned like a Cheshire cat.

“What’s the matter? Having trouble focusing? I’ll be happy to show you again.”

“I… yes. Ok. Again, please.”

He had to show her three more times before she was able to cast it. When the air shimmered with lilac light, Draco gave a short nod. “There, you’ve got it. Now try opening the door.”

With a sigh of relief, she took a giant step away from him to reach the knob.

Meowfoy’s tail twitched. He butted his head against the crack between the door and its frame. Hermione bit her lip. Would her distraction as she cast the spell somehow render it invalid, despite the evidence that it had worked?

The door creaked as she inched it open. Meowfoy pushed his nose right up to the edge of the ward, as if he were sniffing out its weaknesses, but he didn’t venture past the frame.

“You see, Granger? Problem solved.”

“Yes, yes, you’re very impressive. But what do I get if I have to retrieve my cat from your flat at 3 am?”

“Even if he does manage to escape, I doubt you’ll notice. I was the one who returned him to his rightful home last time, not you.” Mischief glinted in his eye as he took a step forward, cutting the distance between them in half. “Not that I minded. You talk in your sleep, did you know?”

Heat rushed to Hermione’s cheeks. Maybe it was time to come clean about her Kneazle’s name. Then she could lie and say she was dreaming about the other Draco. Would that be more, or less humiliating than admitting the truth?

More. Definitely more. “Yes, and you’ve become such an incredible pest in my life that even my dreams feature your insufferable ego.”

“So you admit that you were dreaming about me?”

Hermione scowled. “It wasn’t like that. I was dreaming… I was dreaming about that time in third year when I punched you in the face.”

“Then why did you say my name like I was driving you wild in the best possible way?”

Draco’s teasing, earnest expression did funny things to her heart. Funny things that could get them both fired.

“Good night, Malfoy,” she said, nodding at the still-open door.

Furry paws batted at the magical barrier as Draco stepped into the hall. He reached down to scratch behind Meowfoy’s ears, sent Hermione a wink, and walked away.

* * *

“And so you can see, Muggles have several options when it comes to transportation—yes, Mr. Lupin?”

“Harry says Muggles die in car crashes all the time. Why do they still drive them around?” Teddy spun his pencil, a small smirk toying at the corner of his mouth.

“Wizards also splinch themselves occasionally, but you don’t see them giving that up, do you?”

_Knock, knock, knock._

Hermione glared at Draco and his perfect posture where they lurked outside her door.

As if this day could get any worse. She had already confiscated two self-hopping origami frogs and a puking pastille from Teddy and Tomás. That should have earned them a detention, but Hermione couldn’t stand to submit another form to McGonagall. Besides, they seemed to want detention. Why give them what they wanted?

“Excuse me for a moment, class.”

She stalked to the hallway and shut the door behind her. “Yes?”

“I was just stopping by to verify that you held up your end of the bargain.” He gestured to her legs.

She lifted the hem of her robes to her knee, revealing the textbook-print leggings. “Happy?”

“Very. I’ll leave so you can return to your class before mayhem breaks loose. Would you like me to glare at them before I go?”

Her lips quirked. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Don’t forget to look down your nose.”

She shot him a forced smile and turned away, back towards her classroom. If she had to submit yet another detention form to the Headmistress because of this ridiculously unimportant interruption… The door yielded only an inch, then smacked against something hard. _Oh, what now?_ Giggles erupted from the students on the other side.

Hermione pushed the door the rest of the way open to reveal Tomás Fuego, standing tall with his hands behind his back despite his red nose.

“Eavesdropping again? Ten points from Gryffindor!” 

Tomás, spring in his step, walked down the center aisle and dropped into his seat. 

She didn’t understand. She’d never acted like this as a student, and she’d had Ron Weasley for a best friend. Hermione pushed her palm against her face and drew a deep breath. 

“I’d like everyone to think about how your life would be different if you, or someone in your family, had been born a Muggle. Dig deep. I expect your essays back by October 21st.”

* * *

The next Saturday morning dawned grey and drizzly. Hermione ran her fingers through the condensation on her windowpane and frowned at the rain-soaked streets below. Shopping in this weather was going to be a gloomy experience.

Now that her Kneazle problem was solved, she could throw all her energy into her other discipline issue: the one with spiky turquoise hair and joke shop contraband. She smiled. What better place to do that than _Tomes and Scrolls_? 

After breakfast, she shrugged into her waterproof cloak and tucked an umbrella under her arm. 

She could already smell the musty pages and the sulfur from the fire. Even her hands felt warm, despite rain that pattered against her umbrella _._

The silver bell tinkled as she pushed through the door and closed her eyes to breathe it all in—old books, cedar, and… magical dry cleaning? A groan escaped her lips.

She opened her eyes, and there he was. He leaned against the side of one of the endless rows of chest-high bookshelves, the spine of a book in one hand and the other in his pocket. She rolled her eyes. He’d ignored the crackling fire and cozy armchairs and chosen to loom near the entrance.

“Why hello there, Granger. Fancy seeing you here, in a bookshop of all places.”

“Yes, yes, a bookworm in a bookstore. Hilarious.” She pushed extra sarcasm into her tone for good measure. “What about you? Accepted a position as a decorative bookend?”

Draco stuck a finger in his book and sauntered over. “Looking for reading material on Kneazle behavior, believe it or not. My cat’s been a little bit off for the last few weeks. I’ve started to get worried about her.”

“She’s probably lonely. Meowey’s been missing her, too.” Hermione brightened. “We should have a playdate!” She grimaced. A playdate? Really, Hermione? 

“Sure. My door is always open to my favorite little creature—and her cat, too.” He twirled his finger around the curl that had fallen over her shoulder in its usual rebellious way.

Hermione cleared her throat. “I need to head back to the non-fiction section. Believe it or not, I didn’t come here just to be annoyed by you.”

She tramped towards the back of the shop, unsurprised by the steady click of footsteps that trailed behind her.

“Non-fiction? What sort of book could hold knowledge that the great Hermione Granger hasn’t managed to absorb yet?”

She bit her lip as she ran her hands over the rows of dusty books. “Classroom management. As much as your tutoring in intimidating looks is appreciated, the evil eye isn’t as effective as I need it to be.”

“Ah, yes—your little ‘Teddy and Tomás’ problem. I could tutor you some more.” He stood behind her and reached over her head to flip through the books on the shelf above her. The warmth from his body seeped through her waterproof cloak.

“I’m sure I can find everything I need to know in a book.” Besides, what did he know, with his two months of experience? She’d taught for five years and never had this much trouble before.

A yellow and black spine bearing the title _Taming your Teachlings_ sat just out of reach on the top shelf. She wiggled it with the tip of her pointer finger.

“Need some help? I’m literally right here.” Draco pulled out the book and tucked it under his arm. “Anything else you need?”

Maybe another five feet of space between them. Her head spun, and she shook it violently.

“Good,” said Draco. “We can head over to _The Three Broomsticks_ for lunch and look over the material.”

“Ok. But not as… just as a meeting. Between coworkers.”

His lips pulled into his signature smirk. “Of course.”

Thirty minutes later, Draco was squished against Hermione’s side behind a half-eaten plate of sub-par pub food. His flawless fingernail pointed at a passage in the book he had insisted on purchasing for her _._ “That right there,” he said. “Teenage students are particularly motivated by healthy competition, but the reward must be sufficiently compelling.”

Hermione groaned as she leaned her head on his shoulder, relishing in her small rebellion. She felt Draco’s cheek lift into a smile against the crown of her head. “But they’re already in competition. Isn’t losing house points motivation enough?”

His hand brushed against her opposite shoulder. “Maybe a shorter-term goal would be helpful. Something they can earn in a month’s time.”

“Mmmmmm. Ok, I’m sure I could think of something. What else does it say?” She closed her eyes and let the steady sound of his voice wash over her. She could get used to this. In fact, she never wanted to leave this spot, ever.

After several minutes, a question occurred to her. “Draco, why did you do it?”

His voice paused for a moment before he answered. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Become a teacher. It’s not exactly the conventional choice for someone of your status. Pureblood heirs—even Muggle heirs—tend to stick close to their parents and run the family business.”

The book landed on the table with a soft thud. “Traditional aristocracy certainly has its allure. Honestly, though, after the war, it all started to look so hypocritical to me.” He pushed his hand through his perfect hair. 

“Spotless faces. Pristine hair. Custom robes. And yet, all I could see when I looked at them were the stains on their souls. The stains on my soul.”

He pulled his arm back from where it lay draped around Hermione’s back and clasped his hands on top of the table. “I needed a break. So I came here.”

He sounded so sincere, so regretful of his past. Maybe, just maybe, he had meant it all along—ever since he first stepped into her classroom years ago.

“Of course, I could never get away from all of it,” he said. “My mother still manages to drag me along to a few galas every year. At least some of them serve a purpose—fundraisers, spreading awareness...”

Ah, yes. Like the infamous winter gala. Everyone came, everyone donated, everyone danced. Even Hermione.

“You could be free of those obligations forever, you know. It would be so simple.”

“Really? How so?” Draco asked.

“Two words: Lulawitch pantsuit.”

Draco’s laugh echoed off the walls of the pub.

“But if I’m fired from galas, how will I get the chance to dance with you again?”

“I’m sure you’ll be gutted. That’s happened, what, one time?” One beautiful time, and only for a few twists around the dance floor. The ghosts of his hands on her waist had haunted her for months afterward.

Draco tapped his chin with his finger. “You’re right, and it’s unacceptable. This year, you’re not allowed to leave until you’ve danced with me at least once.”

“Oh, not allowed, am I? I’ll do as I please.”

“Fine. If it pleases you, will you dance with me at the gala?”

Hermione shouldered her beaded bag and shoved herself down the bench, away from Draco’s warmth. It was time to end this before it got even more out of control.

“We’ll see.” She filled her fist with sickles, dropped them on the table, and scurried out the door.

* * *

A week and a half after her non-date with Draco, Hermione sat behind her desk in her empty classroom. It had been the most disastrous week since the beginning of the school year.

Rather than assigning detentions, she’d deducted at least eighty points from Gryffindor in the last ten days. Headmistress McGonagall had raised her eyebrows at the emptying hourglass in the Great Hall, but she hadn’t commented.

Still, Hermione held her shoulders high. Everything was about to change. She had a plan, and it was all thanks to Lavender Brown. She glanced at the paper bag on the right side of her desk.

There were exactly sixty minutes until the beginning of her first class. Maybe it was enough time to finish grading her students’ essays.

Teddy Lupin’s was at the top of the stack.

_If my mother was a Muggle, she would have been one of those clowns. Or maybe a street performer. I’ve heard she loved to make people laugh, and she loved to disguise herself in different costumes._

_I’ll bet she would have been sent to one of those all-girl boarding schools, because she loved to make trouble. Her parents probably wouldn’t have trusted her around boys, and maybe they would have hoped the Nuns would set her right._

_She probably would have gotten into a lot of car accidents, because I’ve heard she was really clumsy._

_I’ll bet she would have used one of those wooden rocking chairs to get me to sleep when I was a baby. She probably would have tried to sing lullabies, but she would have been awful. I’ve heard her sing in some of Harry’s memories of her._

_It’s ok, because I can’t sing, either. I like that. I’m just like her._

_If my mother had been a Muggle, she wouldn’t have been involved in the wizarding war. Maybe then she wouldn’t have died._

Hermione hugged the essay to her chest and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her robes. Tonks would have been such a fun mom. It wasn’t fair that Teddy had never had the chance to know her.

Tonks would have brought out the wildest parts of Teddy. She would have cheered him on, encouraged his imagination, and taken him on crazy adventures. Remus would have been the sensible one. He would have taught him the difference between being tenacious and just being a pill.

Hermione took a deep breath and pulled the next student essay from the stack.

_Tomás Fuego_

_If my mum was a Muggle—oh, wait, that’s right—she already is! My mom is the baddest Muggle to ever walk down the Muggle streets! She rides a giant, noisy motorcycle and in the summertime, she lets me ride with her._

_She used to take me to bonfire night, when we all lived in Spain. Bonfire night is the best. They have fire there. Actual, non-magical fire that burns everything it touches until it’s nothing but a pile of ash. And the fireworks? Absolutely wicked._

_One year, my mum let me set off an entire round of blackjacks. We threw them off the pier into the lake and some of them exploded under the water! Wow, would she love some Weasley’s Wizarding Wheeze’s products. I’m stocking up so I can show her some during the Christmas hols. Whoops—don’t tell Headmistress McGonagall._

Hermione shook her head. So that was where Tomás got his pyromania from. Maybe if she could find a better outlet for him, she’d see fewer flames in her classroom.

“Hey Tomás. Look at this.”

Hermione’s head jerked up. Tomás and Teddy loitered near the classroom door. Instead of his signature turquoise spikes, Teddy wore a violent red-to-orange gradient.

“Wicked!” Tomás stared at his fingertips until they glowed orange. “If I could just figure out how to fire-proof my hair…”

Teddy’s eyes darted around the room. “Maybe George knows something. Next time we pay him a visit—”

“Boys, take your seats.” Hermione frowned. The last thing she needed was for those two to be paying George any more visits. In fact, it was about time she paid him a visit of her own. Her previous strategy of avoiding him had obviously failed.

“I have a surprise for you today,” she said, once all the students were seated. “Today, we will be starting an in-class competition. A friendly contest of sorts.”

She waved her wand, and T-chart appeared on the blackboard. “Groups will be randomly assigned with a sorting spell.” 

Actually, she’d predetermined the teams based on hours of hair-pulling and worry, but her class didn’t need to know that. The most important thing was that Teddy and Tomás were on opposing sides. A little healthy competition between them could only help.

She added the students' names, separated into “Team A” and “Team B” to the T-chart with another wand wave. “You’ll earn points for your team based on good behavior. And in a month, whichever team wins…”

The paper bag from her desk flew into her waiting arms. From it, she pulled out four different neckties with horrifying patterns. “...gets to choose a tie for Professor Malfoy to wear for an entire day.”

Eight hands shot up into the air. “Yes, Mr. Lupin?”

“How did you get Professor Malfoy to agree to this?”

“I didn’t. He has no idea, so don’t tell him. I think it should be a surprise, don’t you?” After all, he owed her for the Erlking incident. And for those cat leggings.

Nervous giggles and hearty guffaws broke the classroom into total chaos. It was time to put her new strategy to the test. Hermione raised her hand in the air, and twenty sets of shoulders straightened to attention. Yes, this was going to work out perfectly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! Once again, I'd like to thank everyone who is loving this story. Your enthusiasm makes me smile, and I especially love reading your thoughts and theories in the comment box. :)
> 
> Thank you to my betas: Bex, Ethan, Gallagher8 and Andi.


	6. Chapter 6

On Friday, Hermione packed up her beaded bag as her last students of the day filed out of her classroom. It was a glorious feeling. No detention, no paperwork, no soul-crushing self-doubt. She had a spring in her steps and a whistle on her lips that didn’t even fade when she was intercepted at the front entrance to her apartment building by a certain blond Professor. 

“I would ask what’s got you so cheerful, but I have a guess—my tutoring paid off.” Draco pulled the front door open and grinned as Hermione walked through. “Feels good, doesn’t it, to have some extra free time in the evening?”

“Yes, thank you for that. You’ve helped me more than you know.” She chuckled to herself. Which tie would the students choose for him? The Hippogriffs, or perhaps the ferrets? He wouldn’t look so smug with one of those wrapped around his neck.

“So not a peep all week? I haven’t been notified of a single detention session.”

“Nope,” Hermione said, giving the ‘p’ an extra-loud pop. “They’ve been on their best behavior. I’ve haven’t seen so many politely-raised hands in my entire teaching career.”

Draco paused at the bottom of the stairwell. “What did you do? Not that I’m complaining—no detention duty for you means no detention duty for me.”

“Yeah, and no detention duty for us means less time spent in your irritating presence.” Hermione sent him a playful grin.

“Excuse me? My irritating presence?” His footsteps echoed up the stairwell. “I am perfectly charming.”

“Sure, when you’re not telling me what to wear and gifting me with atrocities.” 

“I’d give you something nicer, if you’d let me.” He took the final step onto the ridiculous carpet at the top of the stairs. “I’ve checked the staff rulebook. There’s no rule against flirting, gift-giving, or spending time together. Only romantic relationships are forbidden.” 

Hermione turned her back to her front door, crossing her arms across her chest. Flirtation with no hope of commitment? Years ago she would have been game for it. Now it just sounded like a heartache waiting to happen.

Draco put his hands on either side of her head, pinning her to the wall. “So, as much as I would love to court you properly and shout to the world that Hermione Granger has deemed me worthy of her notice, I’m afraid we’ll have to settle for just being friends.” 

Hermione gulped. 

He couldn’t mean that, could he? More likely it was an excuse. A very convenient excuse he could rattle off to remain unattached and free to flirt with any witch who looked in his direction.

“Speechless. Well, while the Kneazle has your tongue, I should tell you—I’ve scheduled a meeting tonight. All Hogwarts Professors who live on the second floor of this building are required to attend. Location undisclosed. I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.”

“Required, huh? On what authority?” 

Draco grinned. “On the authority of curiosity. Can Hermione Granger really stand to leave a stone uncovered, once she discovers a mystery there?”

Of course she could. Hermione knew how to walk away. She just didn’t want to this time. She wasn’t curious, just respectful. She’d never skip out on an official meeting.

“Seven-thirty. I’ll bring along my course material, and we can strategize for future detention sessions.” With a curt nod, Hermione ducked under Draco’s arms and slipped through her front door.

On the other side, Draco Meowfoy sulked, head on his paws and tail flat on the floor behind him. 

“You poor baby. Missing your little friend?” Draco arched his back into Hermione’s hand. “ _ Knowing Your Kneazle _ says that kitties are capable of forming close friendships. Did you bond with that sweet little kitty?” 

His crystal bowl tinkled as she filled it with the Kneazle mix Dr. Calamity had recommended. 

She had about an hour before their “school meeting.” She should absolutely not obsess about what to wear, because this was not a date. 

She spent the next half an hour in her closet, not obsessing or worrying at all about whether she should change out of her school robes. She only ended up changing because she’d be much more comfortable in the navy sweater and tan slacks she’d bought over the summer. At least, that was what she told herself.

_ Knock, knock, knock. _

Hermione held back a girlish sigh at the sight of Draco, dashing as ever, standing on her welcome mat. She couldn’t tell if she was overdressed or underdressed, because he basically lived in his white button-down oxford and black slacks, no matter what the occasion. Dang it. The date—no,  _ meeting _ —hadn’t even started yet and she was already losing it.

Draco’s eyes drifted down to her feet. If he was expecting them to be perfectly pedicured, he was sure to be disappointed. Not that it mattered; she was not trying to date him. Besides, she wouldn’t measure up to his usual pure-blooded princesses no matter how polished her toes were. 

He crouched down and reached his hand out. Heat rushed to her cheeks. What was he doing?

“Hello there, old friend. Miss me, did you?” 

Oh. That made more sense. He wasn’t inspecting her; he was after her cat. Meowfoy pushed his head into Draco’s hand. 

“So the ward is holding up for you, then? I have to say, I kind of miss our late-night visits. It’s been an entire week since I got to hear you speak my name in your sleep.”

Hermione couldn’t resist. He was right there, and oh-so-irritating. She swung her toe straight towards his conveniently-placed sternum. Inches from her goal, he caught her foot in his hands. “Ah-ah-ah; setting a bad precedent for violence already. We haven’t even left the building yet.”

He placed her foot back on the ground and stood, holding out his arm. She narrowed her eyes at it. Increasing the amount of time she spent touching him was sure to end in disaster.

“Where are we going?”

“To dinner as colleagues, of course. Will you allow me to apparate us?”

Hermione sighed and took his elbow, hating herself a little for the warmth that shot through her belly. “Fine. Lead the way.”

He apparated them to a French restaurant. A very posh French restaurant. It reeked pretentious, with its golden pillars and silken draperies. A vision of Astoria Greengrass clinging to Draco’s elbow as she pranced down the literal red carpet to the hostess desk flashed through Hermione’s mind. She turned to Draco with raised eyebrows. “Really, Malfoy?”

“What? I assume you don’t want our work supper to be in the papers.” He nodded to a burly man dressed in head-to-toe black next to the entrance. Draco probably thought the security officer’s presence would comfort her, but she only felt more unsettled.

“I know how it looks, but it really is the best place when privacy is a priority.”

Ah, yes. Privacy. He wouldn’t want his mother getting the wrong idea and sending him a howler to remind him to kindly find someone with purer blood. How convenient that he could blame it all on the school policy.

The host stepped forward and led them through the restaurant, past water fountains enchanted to fall in the shapes of veela and tables draped in white lace. Hermione’s eyes darted around the room and over the tables, but she saw no faces, no forms. The air buzzed with notice-me-not and concealment charms. 

The host led them to their table, gave them a pretentious bow, and promptly abandoned them. On the impractical tablecloth sat black menus embossed with gold lettering.

“How are they supposed to take our order if they can’t see us?” Hermione asked.

“They don’t. It’s all done magically.” He tapped his wand on a very French-looking appetizer, and Hermione watched, fascinated, as it materialized a moment later. 

“What is it?”

“Soupe a l’oignon. Would you like to try some?” Draco’s eyes twinkled as he filled his soup spoon and held it up towards her mouth. She swallowed. Was she reading this wrong? She was pretty sure allowing her coworker to spoon-feed her fancy soup at a fancy restaurant would be crossing over the ‘dinner as colleagues’ line and into the ‘definite, undeniable date’ category. 

“Um, no thank you. I’ll just order my entree.”

“As you wish. Be sure to save room for dessert—they make a fantastic Tart Tatin.” Draco dropped his eyes to the menu. 

There were a lot of French words. Hermine winced. Spanish food had been her mother’s favorite, while her father had favored Italian. The only thing she knew about French food was its tendency towards questionable protein sources. She had no desire to try snails, or squid, or lamb’s brain, or any other disgusting thing some chef who thought he knew things decided was “haute cuisine”.

She’d had enough of that in September with Madam Pomfrey’s jelly beans.

There. There was a menu item with the word ‘steak’. Cow was always a safe choice. She poked it with her wand.

Draco’s eyebrows raised when her dinner appeared between her seven pieces of silverware. 

“Steak Tartare? Interesting choice. I always pegged you for a ‘well-done’ sort of girl.”

Hermione slumped against the straight back of her chair. Oh no. What had she done? Sitting on a sleek black plate in front of her was a perfect little cylinder of raw ground beef, topped with an uncooked egg yolk. Her stomach churned.

Now she had two choices: admit her mistake and order something edible, perhaps swallowing her pride and asking the obvious veteran sitting across from her for a safe suggestion, or risk death by eating meat that looked like it was possibly still living. 

She poked at it with her fork. “I love raw meat. That’s why I ordered it.” She loaded some of the scarlet flesh onto one of the crostinis that garnished the plate. Perhaps the bread would make it a bit more palatable. Draco’s spoon was on the table next to his bowl, his eyes trained on the bite Hermione lifted to her mouth. 

She closed her eyes and bit off half of the crostini. It was just meat. Just beef. Just like any steak that was still a little pink on the inside, and—no. This was not ok. This meat was cold, and clammy, and just  _ so wrong _ . 

She forced a swallow and fumbled for her water goblet. 

Draco pressed his lips together for one, two, three seconds. She glared at him, and he burst out laughing. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But the look on your face—” He steepled his hands in front of his face. “—you can order something else, you really don’t have to eat that.”

“I meant to order it.” 

“Oh, stop being so stubborn. You can admit to me that you’re wrong sometimes, I won’t think any less of you for it.”

“Fine.” Hermione turned back to the menu with a grunt. “It’s not my fault everything is in French.”

Draco grinned. “Do you like chicken? Cooked chicken, of course. The Coq au vin is excellent.”

Fortunately, Hermione made it through the rest of her dinner without accidentally ordering snails, so she was able to stumble back to her flat that night with her pride somewhat salvaged. As they walked down the hallway that held both of their front doors, Draco paused and lifted her hand to his lips. 

“Goodnight, Professor Granger. I enjoyed our professional dinner meeting between colleagues. Perhaps we can schedule another for next week?” He placed a kiss on the back of her hand and ran his thumb over her knuckles. 

“Um. I’m not so sure that’s a good—” Crap. Her words died on her lips as he kissed each one of her knuckles. What was she saying, again? Oh, right. Boundaries. She drew her hand back and scowled at the smirk playing across his face. 

“Goodnight for real this time. I’m sure I’ll see you on Monday.” 

After he was gone, the door shut and her shoes kicked off and lined up in her closet, she groaned. They’d forgotten to discuss detention. 

* * *

“Miss Granger, may I have a word?” Minevra McGonagall poked her head into Hermione’s classroom, her hair in its usual severe bun and her eyes sharp behind her glasses.

Hermione had always found Headmistress McGonagall hard to read. The epitome of a stiff-upper lip, she seemed to have one mood: stern. 

“Of course, Headmistress.” Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. Things had been going well this week. Exceptionally well, thanks to her secret contest. If she wasn’t here to reprimand her, why was she here? She didn’t think McGonagall had heard about her “meeting” with Draco, so surely it wasn’t that. Right? 

She hadn’t seen any hint of platinum blond in  _ The Prophet  _ for weeks _.  _ Not even with Astoria Greengrass or Pansy Parkinson. 

Each tap of the Headmistress' shoes over the stone floor felt like a nail in Hermione’s coffin. 

“I’ve been meaning to do a follow-up. How are things progressing with your discipline issues?”

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. “Actually, things have gone rather well this week. I’ve started a new contest, and the students are ever so enthused about it. Haven’t had to confiscate anything at all since we began.”

McGonagall nodded. “I see. And when the contest concludes?”

Hermione hesitated. She had thought about that, but it still seemed so far off, and her plan was really only half-baked. “I have a few ideas.”

“I’m glad to hear it. You’re a smart woman, Professor Granger. You’ll figure it out.” 

Hermione let out a low, slow breath as the Headmistress moved towards the door. 

“And Hermione?”

Hermione’s back straightened.

“I suggest you look deeper than simple behaviors. Remember that these students are more than what you see.”

Once McGonagall had left and Hermione was alone at her desk, her mind buzzed. More than what she saw. It was so obvious, she was pretty sure it had been on a poster in her primary school. Bad behavior was just the writing on the pages. The motivation was all subtext. 

She pulled out her favorite blue fountain pen and the sturdy parchment she kept in her bottom drawer for owl posts. It was time to write a letter to George Weasley.

* * *

  
  


On Wednesday, Hermione shivered as she slipped into a T-shirt and her last clean pair of leggings. If this wasn’t the only real housing option in Hogsmeade, the freezing nights would have chased her out when the horrible carpet failed to. Even warming charms vanished after a few minutes on frigid nights. 

With a wave her wand at her bedside lamp, she darkened her room and snuggled under her heavy comforter. Maybe, if the chill air forced Meowfoy to the foot of her bed, tonight would be her first satisfying sleep in weeks. 

Her dreams had been featuring frantic yowling more and more each day as Draco Meowfoy paced her warded door and pawed at the containment ward. She honestly didn’t know what his deal was. Was it normal for Kneazles to miss each other this much?

She would have just asked Draco for a kitty playdate (though perhaps not using those exact words), but then there was the problem with his eyes. The problem with the way he looked at her, teased her, brought her poppyseed muffins. The more distance she could put between them, the better. 

She squeezed her eyelids shut and cast a silencing charm to drown out the incessant yowling. In less than five minutes, she was dead to the world.

Unfortunately, the night did not pass as uninterrupted as she had hoped. 

“Granger!” The bed dipped next to her. Hermione groaned and flipped her pillow on top of her head.

“Granger!” A warm hand shook her shoulder. 

This must be the worst kind of nightmare. She rolled back over so her pillow was under her head again and blinked up at Malfoy’s face, illuminated with the soft light of his wand. 

“I have something to return to you.” 

Hermione blinked and squinted until Draco came into focus. His wand in one hand. A white lump curled in the other. Meowfoy looked entirely too comfortable in the nook of Draco’s arm. The little traitor.

“Oh, no. Don’t tell me the wards failed. Because if those wards failed, I have no idea what to do.” She sat up and raked her hands through her tangled hair. “He’s been clawing at them ever since they went up. Your little detention-in-the-Forbidden-Forest stunt has caused me more trouble—”

“Shhhhhh.” Draco put his finger to her lips; she snapped them shut. “It’s 3 AM, Granger—keep shouting and you’ll wake the neighbors.”

If this wasn’t a compromising position... Hermione glanced down at her pajamas and frowned. Of course she was wearing the ugly polyjuice potion leggings Draco had “gifted” her last week. Draco followed her gaze, and his grin widened. 

“Don’t worry about the wards. I’ll help you reinforce them tomorrow after class. I already re-cast the one we used before, and it should be enough to keep him in for at least that long.” He turned to glare at his feline namesake. “Now you, little Meowy, are to be a good kitty and stay in this flat. No more giving Miss Granger trouble. You hear?” He scratched Meowfoy’s twitching ears and placed him on the bed next to Hermione.

“Sleep tight, the both of you. I’ll see you soon.” And with that, Hermione’s very lovely interruption was out the door. 

* * *

  
  


The next evening, Hermione tapped her foot against her kitchen tile as she stared down her favorite red kettle. 

Any minute now. 

Any minute, steam would burst forth from the narrow spout with a shrill whistle. 

Any minute now, a sharp knock would sound at the door to announce the arrival of a colleague whom she was absolutely not getting in over her head with. 

She was watching the pot. Her mother would shake her head if she could see her now. A flash of pain struck Hermione’s heart at the memory. “Oh Darling,” she’d say, ”A watched pot never boils. Find something to do—anything to do, and it’ll be singing for you in no time.” 

Hermione couldn’t help herself. Hermione had to know the very instant it was time to take the next step in her tea-making process. Besides, it was better to watch the kettle than it was to watch the door.

_ Tap, tap, tap. _

She guided Meowfoy out of the way with the side of her foot and inched the door open. Great. He’d brought wine. Wine was probably about the worst possible idea right now. 

“Come in, before Meowy manages to find his way past the ward.  _ Again _ .” 

Draco stepped over the cat on his way to Hermione’s kitchen counter, where the bottle found its place next to her stack of ungraded student essays. 

“Bringing your work home with you? You know that’s a really good way to upset your work-life balance.”

“Well, seeing as the sofa in my sitting room is a thousand times more comfortable than the wooden chair in my freezing classroom, I think I’ll take that chance. Besides, it’s not as if I have a family around that I’m neglecting.”

Draco bent down and placed his hands over the cat’s ears. “Don’t listen to her, Meowy; she didn’t mean it like that.”

Hermine giggled. “It’s probably not a good idea to drink before attempting complex spellwork.”

“Yeah, best not tempt the Gods of magical mischief, or else we might end up glued together for a week.” He sent her a smirk. “What a travesty that would be.”

Hermione gulped. Last time they’d done this, he’d been so close. Way, way too close. And after the way last night had ended, with his lips on her knuckles... Her nerves almost had her uncorking the bottle now rather than later.

“If you like, after we fix your door, I could pour us each a glass of wine. We could work through the tower of student essays on your counter,” said Draco.

“What, so you can mark them all with “T”s?”

“Maybe. I can think of two students who could use a few of those—show them that they really can’t get away with anything.” Draco walked towards her front door and waved his wand around at it, sending a flurry of cloudy blue smoke through the air.

“Actually, Teddy and Tomás haven’t given me much trouble since I implemented the technique I found in that book. I told you I’d figure it out.” 

“Well, I suppose there’s nothing the great Hermione Granger can’t learn from a book.” He beckoned to her with his finger. “It’s ready now, but I need your help. These more powerful warding spells require a second wand.”

She eyed him suspiciously and stepped in front of him. Insatiable flirt that he was, she was almost certain he would overplay how much contact he needed to make with her to perform this spell. “What do I need to do?”

His hand was warm on her waist. She bit back a sigh as he wrapped his other hand around hers, his wand pressing into the back, so that both of their wands were pointing together at the door. “ _ Felius Cohebio Magnus _ .” Their wands danced in a complicated interwoven pattern. “We’ll need to cast it together for the maximum effect.”

When the spell was complete and Draco withdrew to the kitchen table, Hermione’s skin felt cold. If the spell had worked, that meant no more night time visits. That was a good thing.

Draco had preformed the spell and he hadn’t tried anything stupid, like kissing her knuckles or nibbling her ear. He’d been a perfect gentleman.

That should make her happy. 

So why didn’t she feel happy? 

Oh yeah, because she was an idiot. She shook her head. There was no time for this. There was only time for grading student essays, forging an appropriate working relationship with her colleague, and ensuring the students of Hogwarts were cured of their Pureblood elitism.

Draco settled two wine glasses onto the coffee table and sat down with a flourish.

It was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has supported me in this story. I love hearing your feedback and your thoughts. :) 
> 
> See you again next week!


	7. Chapter 7

“So, what did you do to snap your students into line?” Draco refilled Hermione’s glass and resettled the wine bottle onto the coffee table.

Hermione grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” She wasn’t that drunk. She wasn’t planning to get that drunk. Definitely not with Draco around, and definitely not when she was guarding more than one secret. 

“Come on, haven’t I earned your confidence? After everything I taught you about the art of glowering?” Draco placed his elbows on his knees, and the movement jolted Meowfoy off of his lap. He sent Draco a scathing glare, then sat with his head high, as if he’d intended to move to the floor all along. 

“Yes, and it was so helpful.” Hermione frowned at Draco’s untouched glass. “How come you brought wine over if you weren’t going to drink any?”

The corner of his mouth turned upward in a sly smirk. “Oh, very good, change the subject. That removes all of my suspicions.”

“Speaking of suspicions, I know you know things.”

“Why thank you Granger, I’m so glad you noticed. I, in fact, know many things. For instance, I know from the tilt of your head and your teeth on your lip that you’re mulling over a secret. You’re dying to spill it. Go on, let’s hear it.”

Whoops. Draco had the right idea to refuse the wine. She shook her head, as if doing so could clear her dizziness. “No, not… not my secret. McGonagall. Lavender. What’s their deal?”

Draco’s eyebrows furrowed. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Oh. I was hoping…” Another dead end. Was there nothing else to it? Was it as simple as a Headmistress with a soft spot for Gryffindors?

Draco’s fingernail tapped against his too-full wine glass. He was obviously scheming. Thinking of some excuse to brush his hand along her waist, or lift her knuckles to his lips. Shocking he hadn’t tried something already. The last time he’d touched her, they’d been holding their wands and casting magic at the front door.

It should have been exactly what she wanted. He’d finally noticed her lack of reciprocity and backed off. Good. Fine. Perfect.

“Do you want to play a game, Granger?”

“That depends on what it is.” Spin the bottle? Some horrifying wizard version of Monopoly?

“Truth or drink.” He smirked. 

Hermione’s brain buzzed. She’d had enough to drink already, and there were certain questions she was not willing to answer. But at the same time, she’d never seen Draco drink, and drunk Draco was a chapter she was dying to add to his book.

She twirled her finger in her hair. “I reserve the right to end the game at any time.”

“Of course.” 

“And I get to start.” Hermione scooted forward on the couch. This was going to be good. 

“What do you know about Tomás Haden?”

“Oh, come on Hermione, I thought you wanted to get me drunk.”

Hermione shrugged. “Not more than I want information.”

“Tomás seems like a troublemaker, but he’s really just bored. He likes to impress the ladies and he has loads of talent. The two together… well, honestly I think he’s just suffering from James Potter syndrome.”

“And what would you know about that?”

“Far too much, thanks to my embittered father. My turn. Two questions for me.”

“That’s not fair!” Hermione threw her hands up into the air, almost spilling her wine in the process.

“You asked me two questions, so I get two questions.”

“Slytherins.” Hermione rolled her eyes. She should have known better than to expect a fair game.

“Why thank you, Granger. Question one: Why did you run away from me after we had such a lovely dinner together last week?”

“You were too close. We are coworkers, and absolutely not dating, remember?” Heat rose to her cheeks at the memory of his lips against her knuckles. 

Draco nodded. He took the time to settle Meowfoy back into his lap before he spoke again. “Question two: Why did a clever witch like you name your cat something so ridiculously pedestrian?”

Hermione took a drink. “I think I’m done playing your game. ”

* * *

  
  


_ October 27 _

_ Teddy Lupin _

_ There are many differences between Muggle and Magical medicine. When a Muggle gets sick, a doctor slices them open with a sharp knife and cuts the sickness out of them. It sounds kind of awful to me, but Harry says-- _

_ Thud. _

A book the size of Hermione’s hand landed in the middle of Teddy’s essay. Pink bubble letters on a cream background read  _ Your Kneazle and You: The Everything Guide to Decoding Behavior _ . Hermione scrunched her eyebrows together and stared up at Draco Malfoy. “But Meowy hasn’t escaped since last week.”

Draco shook his head. “It’s for my cat. She’s been acting peculiar this week.”

“Peculiar? Look, Malfoy, if this is your way of finagling another ‘dinner as colleagues…’”

With a wave of his wand, Draco moved one of the student chairs next to Hermione’s and sank into it. “She’s off her food. She gives it a couple sniffs, eats a few pieces, and then turns her nose up at it. I can’t figure it out. I’ve tried all her favorites--chicken, tuna, steak, salmon.”

Hermione frowned. “Do you suppose she’s lonely for Meowy? He calls for her an awful lot.”

“You think she’s on a hunger strike? Perhaps if we get the cats together for a purr-date, she’d start eating again?” 

“Well, what does your book say?”

Draco snatched the outrageously twee handbook and flipped through the pages. “I’ll tell you what. Bring Meowy over to my flat tonight. We can let the cats snuggle up together while we look for answers. I’ll make dessert.”

Every alarm bell in her head screamed  _ avoid--avoid--avoid,  _ but what came out of her mouth was, “You can cook?”

He nudged her shoulder and shot her a smoldering grin. “Why don’t you come over and find out?”

Her shoulders sank into her sigh. “See you at seven.”

* * *

  
  
  


She bit at the side of her lip as she rapped on his front door at exactly 7:01 that evening, Draco Meowfoy quietly earnest in her arms. “Just a minute, baby. Just a minute, and you can curl up with your sweetheart and lick her fur to your heart’s content.”

A low chuckle rumbled from the other side of the door a second before it swung open. “Are you talking to yourself, or your cat?” Draco asked.

Hermione dropped Meowfoy the ground, and he scampered off to touch noses with his tortoiseshell girlfriend. 

“Surely you could have figured it out from context clues. Why would I ever wish to lick Kneazle fur?” She didn’t intend to stomp into Draco’s flat, but darn it if he wasn’t getting under her skin already.

Oh, Merlin. So he was one of  _ those  _ people. It looked like a pet store had exploded all over his living room. She counted at least five cat beds, an enormous, life-like tree with several windows carved into the bark, and... was that a leather cat chaise? Hermione squinted. Yes, yes it was, and on it was a book opened to illustrations of birds. No wonder Meowfoy hadn’t wanted to leave.

Over the plush cream rug in front of Draco’s couches, two tails disappeared into a cat house shaped like a golden snitch. The purring was deafening. 

Draco settled into the plush leather of his loveseat, which matched the cat chaise, because of course it did. He leaned against a fluffy throw draped over the back.

“Is that… demiguise fur?” She frowned and ran her fingers over the throw. Demiguises were adorable and shaggy. They did not deserve to be turned into comfort objects.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head. It’s transfigured. No creatures were harmed in the making of this blanket.” He pulled the offending object off of the couch and draped it over his legs. “It’s terribly cozy. Come and see.”

Hermione tapped her fingers against her leg. She really shouldn’t. 

Draco pulled his Kneazle book from the side table and wiggled it at her. “Come on, how else are you going to look over my shoulder and correct my pronunciation?”

She sighed. Studying the book was the whole reason she was here, wasn’t it? She settled in next to him and draped the blanket over her legs. “Oh! Does it have a warming charm?”

“Why, yes it does. It’s enchanted to not only be extra fluffy, but extra cozy.”

“Dang it, Draco, you’re going to get me addicted to your blanket.” 

His bright smile distracted her as he inched closer and held the book open between them. “Good. The more you come to visit me, the less my cat will yowl at my door.”

Draco read aloud from a section entitled  _ Troubleshooting: What to do When Things Get Hairy _ . Hermione soon found herself yawning, soothed into a stupor by the steady sound of his voice. Her eyelids drooped, and her head felt heavy. What could be the harm, really, in leaning it slightly to the right until it found a shoulder to rest on? After all, she’d done it in that pub in Hogsmeade and nothing wild had happened. 

And she’d been so good lately. There had been next to no touching since he’d helped her cast the advanced Kneazle ward on her door, and that barely even counted. Didn’t she deserve a reward?

She glanced at the silk of his black button-down shirt, so soft and so close. His adam’s apple bobbed as she stared, but he turned the page and kept reading. 

This was silly. She was tired, his shoulder was there, and she wanted to take it. With a deep breath, she leaned against his side and dropped her cheek to his shirt.

Her heart raced at the feel of his jaw moving against her hair. Well, she wasn’t going to be able to sleep like this. This was a mistake. A stupid, self-indulgent mistake, but it was too late now. She’d look ridiculous if she backed away as soon as she’d given in. 

His arm wrapped warmly around her shoulder, and his volume dropped to just above a whisper. When he came to the end of the chapter, he dropped the book into his lap and ran his fingers through her hair. “Granger--”

Whatever he was about to say was interrupted by an insistent rapping at the door.

Draco groaned and raked his fingers through his hair. “Who in Merlin’s name—”

He stalked to the door and yanked it open. On the other side stood Lavender Brown, a pastel briefcase in each hand. “Why hello, Professor Malfoy! And I see you have Professor Granger over as well! Wonderful.”

She marched through the open door, not even waiting for an invitation, and placed her cases on Malfoy’s marble coffee table. “I’m so pleased to meet with two of my best customers at the same time! You’re going to be very excited about my newest business venture.”

She pressed a button on the side of the mint green case. It popped open to display a collection of bottles and jars in the same sickly green. “These enchanted cleaning products will take all of the wand work out of your cleaning routine, before you can even say--It’s Magic!™”

Hermine pinched the bridge of her nose. She had hoped that indulging in Lavender’s Lulawitch products would get her off of her trail. Clearly that, like hanging around Malfoy despite knowing better, had been a huge mistake. If Hermione stayed, she’d only encourage this ridiculous behavior. The last thing she needed was more leggings, or cleaning products, or anything that came out of a pastel briefcase.

She could try to ask her about McGonagall, but the way Lavender tended to ramble about her sales, she had no hope of making any headway. Hermione cleared her throat. “Well, as I was saying--I really should be getting home. Early morning tomorrow, and all.”

Draco shot her a murderous glance. “But we never ate--”

“Goodnight, Draco!” 

At her call, Draco Meowfoy poked his regal nose out of the cat house. Hermione scooped him into her arms and scurried out the front door. 

* * *

  
  


“Now, seeing as we are nearly finished with the Muggle transportation unit, I thought a bit of review was in order. This method is called Jeopardy, and is based on a Muggle television series. It’s quite popular in the American school system.”

Hermione magicked a series of gold-numbered boxes onto the blackboard.

“Yes, Miss Simmons?”

“Will we win points for our teams, for the class contest?”

“The winning team will earn fifty points.”

Excited murmurs filled the room. With only one week left until November, and thus the end of the class competition, spirits and tensions were high. Teddy’s team had managed to pull ahead of Tomás’ by 37 points, and were eager to keep that lead--and, of course, Tomás was eager to upset it. 

Think of the devil. “Yes, Tomás?”

Tomás wore a wicked grin. “You have a visitor, Professor Granger.”

Hermione jumped at the sight of Draco leaning against her door frame. He was holding a suspiciously squishy package topped with a silver bow. 

“Excuse me, class.” 

Twenty pairs of mirthful eyes stared at the doorway, presumably imagining Draco wearing any number of ridiculous ties.

“Having a contest, are we? Your students seem awfully invested. It makes me wonder what you’re offering as a reward.” 

Snickers scattered around the room. Hermione glanced back at her students and shut the classroom door behind her. “Can I help you?”

He pressed the package into her hands. “I assumed since you left me alone with that wretched peddler last night, it was your way of implying you wanted me to surprise you with a token of my affections. So, surprise!”

Hermione grimaced. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. I thought these would be perfect for next Thursday.”

“And why is that?”

“We’re going for a walk. Specifically, we are taking our Kneazles for a walk. Fur…” Draco blinked and readjusted his robes. “My cat is getting fat.”

A portrait of a stern witch in pristine robes flinched at Hermione’s outburst of laughter. 

“Getting… fat? So you want to… walk them? What, with a leash? Draco, cats don’t go on walks!”

He pulled that ridiculous Kneazle behavior book out of his robes and flipped it open to a bookmarked page. “...in the case that you should find your Kneazle to be taking on extra weight, it may be beneficial to entice them to exercise.”

He snapped the book shut. “So you see, cat walking is on your schedule for next Thursday evening. I will provide the necessary supplies and pick you up at 7 pm.”

Hermione bit back a grin. She couldn’t think of a reason to shoot it down--walking cats sounded like a horror show, not a date. 

“Fine. 7 pm.” She lifted the corners of the wrapping paper and tried to get a peek at what was hidden below.

Draco smirked. “You’ll regret leaving me alone with Lavender.” He turned on his heel and fled, his footsteps echoing on the cold castle floors.

How bad could it be? Surely nothing could top leech leggings. She tore a bit of the paper, just the tiniest peek--she took it back. There were worse things.

* * *

Next Thursday, Hermione sighed at her legs as she waited for the sharp rap at the door that would signal Draco’s arrival. She still couldn’t believe someone had designed leggings featuring “Hermione Granger, throughout the ages,” according to the scrawling background text behind the portraits of her own face from infancy to graduation. She also couldn’t believe that she was now wearing them, and was planning to wear them outside of her flat. At least they would be covered by her long winter cloak.

Draco tapped twice at the door and cracked it open, allowing his Kneazle to poke her shaggy head through. He was dressed in his usual nines, looking as though he might be quite at home at a very different kind of catwalk _. _

“Hello, Draco. Make yourself at home.”

“I’d better not. If I let my cat off her leash at your flat she’ll hide under the bed and never come out.” He held out a small paper bag. “One Kneazle leash, for your walking convenience.”

Hermione glanced at Draco Meowfoy, who was meowing at his girlfriend behind the invisible containment barrier. She pulled a black harness from the bag and held it up to inspect. “How does it work?”

“First, how did you like my little present? Wearing them, I hope?”

Hermione grumbled and stuck out her calf. 

“Excellent.” Draco grinned. “Simply place it on his back. It should attach itself automatically.” 

The cords twisted against the snowy fur of Meowfoy’s back for a moment, then stilled with a final  _ click _ . Meowfoy’s belly slunk to the floor, his ears flat against his head. He looked exactly like teenaged Malfoy. If Kneazles could talk, Hermione was sure he would say, “My father will hear about this.”

She would just have to carry him, then, and hope he didn’t scratch her eye out in his fury. Cats in arms, the odd foursome bounced down the steps and out to the chilly evening streets below.

“So where are we going?” Hermione placed Meowfoy onto the sidewalk next to Draco’s cat. They sat on the ground and sniffed each other’s faces. 

“There’s a lovely garden park a few blocks down. There might be some fairies there to catch their interest.”

“I hope so, because they seem to have very little interest in going anywhere now.” Hermione walked five steps away from the puddle of fur on the sidewalk. Stubborn cat. He made no move to follow her, even when she tugged gently on the lead.

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Are you a witch, or not?” 

“Oh, great cat whisperer, pray tell: what are the magic words that will turn my Kneazle into a compliant creature?”

He looked way too smug for a wizard holding a cat leash. “Simple. You don’t even need a specialized spell.” He waved his wand, and a canary appeared in the air in front of the cats.

Oh. Why hadn’t she thought of that? She pulled her wand out and conjured a bird to match.

They followed the cats and the canaries all the way to a beautiful marble arch that opened to a sprawling garden surrounded by hedges. Delicate winter blooms and a few fall flowers filled hexagonal mulch beds. With a jolt of guilt, Hermione registered the statue in the center. Dumbledore. He peered out at the garden through his half-moon glasses, a sentinel over the enchanted roses. So close to her home, and she’d never even taken the time to visit before. 

She traced a finger over a bulbous white flower that dangled from a tall green stem. 

“A snowdrop,” said Draco. “Traditionally used to symbolize purity in certain… questionable circles. I’m a bit surprised they’ve included it in the collection here.”

Hermione tilted her head towards him. “It is a lovely flower. If it’s important to your culture, you don’t have to dismiss it on my behalf.”

He scoffed. “This flower represents the exact opposite of everything I hold dear.”

Hermione bit her lip. Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe he really didn’t care about her blood status. All the times he’d been in the papers with Astoria or Pansy--maybe it didn’t mean what she’d assumed it meant.

Hermione ran her finger over the fragile petals. “Then why not give it our own meaning?”

Draco pinched the stem close to the ground and held the flower up to her in offering. “What shall we assign it, then? A purity in purpose? A heart as pure as the driven snow?”

She kicked her toe against the icy path. “If those are the requirements, I’m afraid I don’t qualify.”

“Well, I hope not. Even I can’t claim to have innocent intentions--dragging you around Hogsmeade under the pretense of meetings between colleagues.” He tucked the flower into the breast pocket of her winter cloak. 

She blinked up at him and found herself lost in the smoky depths of his eyes. His hands caressed her arms below her shoulders, spreading heat down her ribs and into her stomach. If she stayed like this, if she didn’t move an inch, she was sure to do something she would regret tomorrow. Would there be an alarm, some sort of non-compliance spell, that would sound if two members of Hogwarts’ staff kissed?

She swallowed and broke his gaze. Ice spread over the stones beneath her feet, creating twisted patterns. 

“It’s because of my mother, isn’t it? You’re afraid my mother would never welcome you as my girlfriend. I can tell you that you’re wrong--I’ve campaigned against pureblood bigotry for so many years now. She did eventually come around. You know that--”

Hermione jerked her head back up. His eyes were shifting, panicking as they searched for answers in hers. He hadn’t mentioned his father; he hadn’t needed to. It was unlikely his father would have any say on Draco’s social life from his permanent cell in Azkaban.

“No, Draco, it’s not—”

“Because of our past, then?” His face fell. “I know I was a prick. It must be difficult to see past all the horrific things I’ve done.”

“I forgave you for that years ago, when you first started lecturing my students on the error of your own ways.” 

“Then why? Why the hesitation? I can see it in your eyes--I know you feel at least some part of what I feel for you.”

And she did feel it. She felt it rising up in rebellion against the glass cage she had tried to shove it into. She knew there was a reason she’d lost herself in the beautiful, silvery eyes of her Kneazle when she’d spied him in the pet shop window. There was a reason his name popped into her mind when she adopted the cat who was more elegant than any animal had the right to be. A reason she could never have given it any other name. 

“Draco, I--” The intensity of his gaze captivated her. She almost lost her voice, but then she dug deep into her Gryffindor courage. “I can’t. Who knows what would happen? There’s probably some kind of contract-breaking detection spell.” The memory of Marietta Edgecomb’s face, the boils painting the word “sneak” across it, made Hermione shudder. “We could both end up disfigured, or worse, fired.” 

A slow smile spread across Draco’s face. “The rules--is that all?”

No. No, it was not all. Rules aside, she’d be an inappropriate girlfriend for him. She would fail miserably in high society, even if he didn’t care that she was Muggle-born. Besides, what would Ron say? What would Harry do?

“That’s enough, don’t you think?” Hermione said.

He chuckled as his hand rose to caress her chin. “I wouldn’t worry about the rules too much. I doubt McGonagall has any way of detecting whether her employees are stealing secret kisses.”

“Of course  _ you _ wouldn’t worry about the rules. When do Slytherins ever worry about the rules, except to know how to break them?”

“Precisely.” His teeth shone in the moonlight that had settled over the park during their walk. “And this rule in particular is one I am longing to break.”

He traced his thumb over her bottom lip. He was unbelievably tempting, glowing in 

the soft light and leaning towards her with apparent rapture. But before she could ruin her spotless employee record, Meowfoy’s leash yanked her hand to the side.

“Oh!” He was chasing a pixie around the garden bench, running in a half-arc at the end of his tether. Thank Merlin for unruly cats. Now that the spell was broken, she had the strength to step away. “We’d better head back. It’s going to be an awfully early morning tomorrow if I don’t get started on grading.”

The walk back to their apartments was quiet. Hermione couldn't calm the rapid beating of her heart as she replayed the feel of his hand on her chin over and over again. 

Maybe breaking this one little rule wouldn’t be such a bad thing, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, Thank you for everyone who has shown support to this story by reading and reviewing. It means the world to me.


	8. Chapter 8

Hermione shut her front door a bit too loudly behind her and groaned. If she was confused before her little catwalk with Draco, her mind was spiraling out of control now. 

She slouched down to the terrible carpet and removed Meowfoy’s leash. With an indignant “meow,” he turned his head and began licking his back, as if to rid himself of any essence of cat harness that clung to his fur.

Hermione fingered the snowdrop in her coat pocket. What exactly had Draco meant by—what was it he had said—”everything I find myself so desperately wanting?” It had sounded like he meant her.

The thought made her heart pound so hard she could almost hear it. She’d been wrong about him. It was possibly the first time in her life she was happy to be incorrect. He wasn’t only flirting with her because he flirted with everyone, as she’d assumed. He wasn’t vehemently opposed to openly dating someone of her heritage, as she’d thought.

He felt something for her. He’d admitted it himself. His words rang through her mind—”You must feel some part of what I feel for you.”

Half of her wanted to throw open the door to her apartment, skip down the hallway and plant that kiss on his lips that the yank of the leash had stolen from them.

But he couldn’t want her— _ really want her— _ not the way she wanted him. 

Sure, maybe he wanted her for a day. For a week. For a month. But he didn’t want her for a year—couldn’t want her for a decade. He hadn’t even wanted his pure-blooded princesses for longer than a Gala.

There was not a single chapter in  _ The History of Draco Malfoy  _ that suggested he was capable of, or even interested in, a long-term relationship. Least of all with someone as graceless as her. 

And what would happen when it was over? She’d be jobless, loveless, and humiliated. Hermione shook her head. The more time she spent in his presence, the more dreams she spent in his arms, the clearer it became: a fling with Draco Malfoy was the last thing she wanted.

To begin a relationship with Draco would defy all logic. It would make no sense, no matter if he did fancy her.

The snowdrop winked at her from her cloak pocket, and she pulled it out. With a giant step over Meowfoy, who was already crying at the front door, she marched to her kitchen cupboards. 

She didn’t have a vase, at least not a tiny one suitable for a single flower. Instead, she reached for a wine glass, perhaps the same one Draco had left on her coffee table earlier this week, full of wine and empty promises. 

In a sweeping movement of her wand, the glass transformed to a bud vase with an opening the size of her pinky finger. It was simple, straight-sided with harsh edges that contrasted with the delicate elegance of the snowdrop she placed inside. 

She almost placed a stais charm on the flower, but it didn’t seem right. This flower would wilt, as was the natural course of things. Over the next few weeks, it would lose its freshness and then it would fade. It would droop and die, because cut flowers were never meant to last. 

Perhaps as she watched it happen, it would remind her to stay away from Draco Malfoy.

* * *

  
  


Hermione had watched Friday approach with dread. When she’d first started her classroom contest, she’d been focused on petty revenge and keeping her job. She hadn’t worried too much about what would happen when the end rolled around, and how Draco would react. That had been future Hermione’s problem.

But now, the future had arrived, and Hermione was regretting her past self’s actions. The final tally on Thursday had landed the victory to Teddy’s team, and they’d selected a tie that made the entire class giggle. Now came the hard part: actually convincing Draco to wear it.

She grimaced. He was not going to go down without a fight. Slytherin that he was, he was sure to find a way to use the situation to his own advantage. Still, he owed her. He owed her for the Polyjuice potions leggings, for the horrendously embarrassing leggings of her own face, and for that initial pair of cat leggings that started it all. It was his turn to suffer. 

She shoved the packaged tie into her cloak pocket and marched over to his door. 

_ Tap, tap, tap. _

It didn’t sound like things were going so well at Draco’s flat, cat-wise. There was a series of angry meows and faint ruffling behind the door. Served him right for making her fall for him with his pretty words and gifting her with ugly leggings. After a minute he pulled the door open, his hair ruffled and his eyes wide. “Granger? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She swallowed her nerves. “I have a… favor to ask.”

“Really?” His mouth twisted into his signature smirk and he opened the door wider. 

The smell of Cedarwood hung in the air around him, but she resolutely ignored it. She marched right past him, past his cat, past his indulgent cat furniture, to her favorite spot on his couch. Oh, dear; when had she developed a favorite  _ anything _ in his flat?

“Remember that contest I told you about? The one I was using to keep my students in line?” The words tumbled from her mouth in a bundle of frantic nerves. But she’d made this mess, and now there was nothing left to do but push through and hope she’d make it out unscathed. 

Draco stood behind the couch and braced his arms on the cushion, just behind her shoulder blades. “Hmmmmm, yes. I do recall that detentions dropped sharply after you followed my genius advice.”

Hermione fiddled with her hair.. “Well. I obviously had to give them some kind of incentive…”

“Hermione…”

The sound of her name on his tongue, even as a mild reprimand, almost made her lose her train of thought. “...and I figured since you already owe me for all the leggings you’ve forced upon me…”

“What did you do?”

She pulled the package out of her cloak. “I might have told them that the winning team would get to pick your tie. That you would wear in class tomorrow. ‘Team A’ won. Surprise!” Hermione grimaced at the squeak in her voice. She’d been trying for bold and unbothered, and she definitely hadn’t managed it.

“Why, you little Slytherin!” His fingers brushed against hers as he took the package from her hand. “And what makes you think I’d agree?”

Hermione bit her lip. “Because… you owe me?”

Draco shook his head and slipped his finger under the flap to remove the paper. “Well, well, well; you did get yourself into the dragon’s den. I’m afraid my compliance is going to come at a price.”

Whatever price he had in mind, she was sure she wasn’t going to like it. But she was in too deep now—who knew what chaos her classroom would descend into if she failed to keep her end of the bargain? 

If her badly-disguised “staff meetings” with Draco didn’t get her sacked, her students setting Hogwarts on fire certainly would.

Hermione crossed her arms. “Name it.”

“Well, that depends on just how awful the—” The tie was finally free of the packaging. “Hippogriffs. Really, Granger?”

“It was either that or ferrets. I also had a Harry Potter tie. I think they let you off easy.”

“Well. Just for that, I’ll have to make it double.”

“Double?”

“Double. I will wear your tie, Granger, only if you give me a kiss for my troubles. Well, two kisses. Hence the double.”

Hermione grimaced. She didn’t want to be his stupid little game. She thought of the snowdrop, still white in its transfigured vase, but not for long. 

And yet, hadn’t she itched for this? Hadn’t the memory of his lips on her knuckles kept her awake night after night?

Besides, she simply couldn’t break her word to her students. She had to get him to wear that tie, no matter the cost. 

“Ok,” Hermione said.

His smile was just on the edge of feral. Draco stalked around to sink next to Hermione on the couch. His palms were warm on her waist and sent shivers over her skin. 

“Ok?” he said.

“Ok. You may have your two kisses. But don’t expect it to become a regular…” Her eyes grew wide as his face inched towards hers. Oh, Merlin, she was not going to survive this. She opened her mouth to take it all back, let her students hang her by the ears from the ceilings in retribution, but it was too late. 

His lips were soft and hesitant on hers, and lingered for only a moment before they pulled back. He searched her eyes, his own full of questions and softly restrained fire. Then he leaned in again, and this time his hands were in her hair, reaching for her cheek, tracing trails of flames down her back. And in the back of her mind, she stared at a ticking clock with a sense of dread that this moment would end. Two kisses. And never any more. 

After a minute that was both too short and infinite in length, he pulled back and gave her a small smile. “See? No blue spots on your face or kissing alarms orbiting your head. I think it’s safe to say that McGonagall has no idea.”

Her lips twitched. If only it were that simple. Just because they hadn’t gotten caught this time, didn’t mean both their jobs weren’t on the line. And then there was the other thing. An image of a beautiful blonde in flowing designer gowns, perched on Draco’s arm flashed through her head. “It’s not just that…”

Draco frowned at her. “Right.” He took a step back from her, letting his arms fall to his sides. “Well, your obligation is fulfilled. I’ll keep my promise.” He shoved the hideous tie into his pocket and headed towards the door. 

He rattled the doorknob, feet frozen to the floor. “I suppose I can’t change how you see me. I thought maybe you’d come to accept me as I am, but I understand. It’s too much.”

Well, he was right about that; she couldn’t accept a casual relationship with a man who could only be interested in a workplace fling. Wouldn’t accept it. She had too much self-respect to lay her heart out on the floor to be stomped on. That was, without a doubt, “too much.”

And yet, as she shuffled out of his front door, as she watched him snap it shut behind her, her heart filled with uncertainty. And as she stared at her darkened ceiling that night, she ran her fingers over her lips and wondered if she could possibly resist a second round.

* * *

  
  


Hermione’s nose poked out of the tiny crack between her front door and its frame, followed slowly by her chin. She didn’t see any sign of high-gloss dragonskin boots or perfectly tailored pants sauntering down the hall. Well, that was lucky. She didn’t think she could face him after the way things had ended last night.

What would he do if they happened upon each other, after their disastrous last meeting? Would he scowl? Would he wrap his arms around her? She wasn’t sure which she preferred.

Her eyes darted from the empty sidewalk to the still-sleeping shops, from leaf-bear trees to flower beds for her entire walk through Hogsmeade and onto the castle grounds. No sign of the coworker next door. 

She peeked around the final corner of the hallway that led to her Muggle Studies classroom. Not a blond hair in sight. Or any people at all, really—it was 6:00 am and the castle was still ghostly quiet, but she hadn’t been able to stay in her apartment for a second longer. The memory of the night before, when Draco had turned her heart inside out with a single—no, double—kiss had taunted her until she had to be as far away as possible from the scene of the crime. 

She was really beginning to miss the comfortable desk in her bedroom. Her flat may be just as chilly as the castle, but at least she could wear her Kneazle slippers under her desk, and at least sometimes Meowfoy curled up next to her and kept her company. Hermione pulled her beaded bag in front of her and rifled through it. Stacks of quills, crumpled-up white paper bags, and—oh, there they were. A stack of student essays, bound with a binder clip, that she’d shoved in there earlier this week.

She flipped through the pages, and they popped open to a violently purple envelope, tucked somewhere in the middle. She didn’t know how she’d missed it before, but then, George had always had unconventional ways of doing just about everything. 

She bit her lip and slipped open the seal.  _ Pop! _ A spray of dragon-shaped confetti and holographic glitter exploded everywhere. Hermione gasped. “Oh, George! Why?” There was glitter on the papers. Glitter on her robes. Glitter all over her desk, and glitter under her fingernails. She clunked her forehead against the student essays. Oops. Now there was glitter on her face.

“I am going to kill him.” Hermione pulled out her wand and cast a vanishing spell at the glitter, but of course it didn’t budge. Leave it to George to create a magic-proof glitter bomb. Well, it was a good thing she’d gotten an early start. She still had—she checked the clock—one hour and forty-five minutes until the start of her first class. A conjured soap bucket and a few microfiber cloths could probably make quite a bit of progress in that time. 

Unfortunately, she never got the chance to try. 

_ Beep. Beep. BeepbeepbeepbeepBEEEEEEEEEP. _

Oh, no; Hermione knew that sound. Frantic, she fumbled with her wand and cast a vanishing spell on her coffee. It was still hot, and the last thing she needed was a third-degree burn to accompany all the glitter on her face. She felt the room tip, sideways, then up-side down, and then she was falling. She fell up, up, up to the ceiling and crashed against the hardwood planks _.  _ The  _ smack _ it should have made was overpowered by the sounds of the student desks, the plants near the window, and all of her chalkboard erasers hitting the ceiling at the same time. 

“THEODORE LUPIN!” 

Well that was pointless. He couldn’t hear her shout. He was almost certainly laughing it up with his partner-in-crime in the Gryffindor common room. Hermione eyed her desk drawer below her. She was pretty sure she had at least one blank howler tucked away in there for Harry. Why he had ever given George the idea to create a reverse-gravity bomb was a mystery to her. 

At least the wards on her desk had held. Her student’s essays, her empty coffee cup, and her beaded bag sat undisturbed, unaware of the chaos that had befallen their owner. Not to mention the rest of the classroom. 

She mentally thanked past-Hermione for having the foresight to magic-proof it back in September as she crawled across the ceiling towards the open door. It almost made up for the decisions that had led to her kissing Malfoy yesterday. Almost.

She had just reached it and poked her head out into the hall when Headmistress McGonagall came storming through the corridor. Great, that was exactly what this moment needed: a dose of humiliation.

“Professor Granger! I thought I heard—well, I suppose the fact that you are stuck to your ceiling is confirmation that I was correct.” She sighed and drew her wand. “Teddy and Tomás?”

“If I had to guess. Though I don’t have any evidence.”

The headmistress sighed. “And things were going so well. I had rather hoped…”

Hermione hung her head. Her performance review—and possibly the end of her job, if she couldn’t turn things around—was less than two months away. It was not the time to be backsliding. “I’m so sorry, Headmistress.”

“It’ll take days to reverse this mess. Until then, there’s an empty room in the dungeons. Room 211.”

Hermione grimaced. The last place she wanted to be right now was right next to Draco’s classroom. How was she supposed to avoid him if they were sharing a wall at work as well as a hall at home? She glanced up into McGonagall’s stern eyes and cringed. “Is there any other room available?”

“I’m afraid not. Not any that have been maintained enough to support a class on such short notice.”

Sighing her defeat, Hermione  _ Accio’d  _ her student’s papers and lesson plans. At least this way, she’d be able to verify in person that Draco had kept his end of the deal. 

At least, that’s what she told herself as she marched down the cold, stone hallways of Hogwarts’ lower levels. But at 7:30, just half an hour before her troublesome class of first years was due to begin, she had yet to see her neighbor. 

She really should go check. Just to make sure. Otherwise, her students were sure to complain and ask her about it in the middle of class, and the whole period would be thrown off.

She tapped her quill on the loaner desk in her temporary classroom and rose to her feet. Might as well get it over with.

The sounds of Draco’s low murmuring tones drifted through the door a split-second before she swung it open. He jerked his head up mid-sentence and stared. Hermione’s heart pounded once, twice, three times; and then a small smirk appeared on Draco’s face. “May I help you, Professor Granger?”

Gold, shimmery steam rose from twenty cauldrons perched on desktops around the potions dungeon. He was in the middle of a class. She hated it when he interrupted her teaching, and here she was doing the same to him. “Um, sorry. It’s not important. I’ll come back—”

Draco dropped his wand onto his desk and sauntered over to the door. With each step he took, it became more and more apparent that he had, indeed, honored their agreement. The tie looked even more ridiculous knotted under his pristine collar than it had in Lavender’s Little Shop of Horrors. 

Her eyes shot to his lips before she could stop them. Only two kisses, and she already couldn’t look at him without thinking about them. She could only imagine how much worse it would be if she were to indulge in more.

Hermione swallowed hard, as if doing so would force her fluttering stomach to settle. “I didn’t know you had a class.” She would not look at his lips. She forced her gaze upwards to stare into his eyes of granite. 

“Fifth year combined.” He adjusted the knot in his tie pointedly. 

She wanted to tease him. Make a joke about her efforts paying off. But with the way things had ended last night—well, it was probably better for both of them if she pretended it had never happened. He didn’t want what she wanted. It was just like Ron; they wanted different things. They needed different people. It was never going to work.

From a cauldron surrounded by three polished boys wearing green ties, a murmur and an undignified snort broke the silence.

Draco’s head whipped around. “Macnair. Davis. You will show respect to all Professors of Hogwarts or you will stay after to chop fluxweed. Understood?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. These must be the boys Draco had been complaining about all year. Davis turned to his friends and made another comment under his breath, and all three boys turned to stare at Hermione, with variations of smirks and sneers marring their faces.

Oh. The glitter. She’d forgotten that she still looked like a birthday party had thrown up all over her.

“I need to get going. Lesson to prepare.” Hermione’s heel squeaked on the dungeon floor as she fled the scene. 

When she was safely behind her borrowed desk, she slapped her hand to her forehead. She was going to have to see him again. There was no way Teddy and Tomás were going to get away without detention tonight.

* * *

  
  


At 7:45 am, Hermione still had glitter on her forehead. It turned out that not only was George’s glitter bomb magic-proof, but it was also microfiber-proof. That howler in the bottom of her desk drawer was looking more and more tempting by the second.

Tomás and Teddy did not look at all surprised when they entered Hermione’s alternate classroom in the dungeons. 

“Teddy, in the hallway. Now.” According to  _ Discipline for Dummies,  _ the most effective way to entice a confession was to conduct separate interviews. 

Teddy’s eyes shot to Tomás before he slouched out into the hallway, hands in his pockets. 

It was still early. Hermione had exactly fifteen minutes until class started. She bet she could do it in five.

“Would you like to explain to me why I had to peel myself off of my ceiling this morning?”

Teddy looked at his feet. 

“Because if you don’t talk, I’m going to Tomás, and I know he’s going to tell me.” Hermione stooped her head down so she could look straight into Teddy’s eyes. “Look, Teddy, I’m not going to be mad. I just don’t understand. For weeks you’ve had perfect behavior, and now all of a sudden you’re back to it again? Why?”

Teddy’s shoes must have been fascinating, because he didn’t break eye contact with them, even with Hermione staring into his face. 

“Miss Granger?” said Tomás. 

Hermione whipped her head around. Great, class hadn’t even started and already Tomás was ignoring her requests. “Tomás, I don’t remember inviting you into this conversation. Go back into the classroom and wait for me there.”

“Sorry, it’s just—It was my idea, Professor. It isn’t Teddy’s fault.”

“Not Teddy’s—then where did you get the anti-gravity bomb? I know for a fact that George Weasley—”

Tomás held his hands out to the side in a repentant shrug. “Well, ok, you got me there. But it  _ was _ my idea, and I’m the one who put it there.”

“Fine.” Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “I guess it’s detention for the both of you, again, until we can figure something else out.”

Tomás brightened. “Like another contest? Can it be leggings this time instead of a tie? Malfoy in leggings would be totally wicked.” His grin was way too self-satisfied for a child who’d just been told he’d be spending the evening in detention. 

Hermione shook her head. “I don’t know. You two run along and sit down. I’m going to tell Professor Malfoy he’s stuck with us tonight. Again.”

Tomás gave Teddy a congratulatory high-five on their way back into the temporary classroom. If Hermione had thought her life was a mess before, it was an absolute disaster now. A glittery, upside-down, heart-breaking disaster. She could only pray that things wouldn’t get worse.

  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for everyone who supports this story by reading, leaving kudos, subscribing and leaving comments. I love hearing what you have to say, it makes me so excited! 
> 
> Another thank you to my betas, Ethan, Bex, and Gallagher8.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my betas, Ethan, Bex, and Gallagher8.
> 
> Updated every Tuesday.

Hermione’s feet dragged as she stepped next door to the Potions classroom at 6:30 that night. After everything she’d been put through today, how she longed to go home and curl up with her familiar. Instead, she’d be stuck in the bowels of Hogwarts with the temptation of her lifetime. 

The door whined as she pushed it open. Draco’s eyes flicked to her, and then back down to a pile of parchments on his desk. That ridiculous hippogriff tie was still tightly fastened around his neck, whether out of fulfilling his end of the bargain to the highest possible standard or out of apathy, Merlin only knew.

“Oh. Hello. The students haven’t arrived yet,” he said.

Hermione fidgeted with the sleeve of her robes. The last place she should be was alone in a dark dungeon with a man she desperately wanted to kiss and also to not kiss. Her eyes swung to the silver-edged clock over the supply closet. “How was the rest of your class?”

Draco smirked. “Not a single disruption. Malfoy glare gets them every time.”

The trio of Slytherin boys, smirking at her through the steam of their cauldrons flashed through her mind’s eye. “Maybe. But you know, even if it shuts them up, I doubt glaring at them has any effect on their prejudices.” 

He paused. His quill clicked against the wood as he plunked it onto his desk. “Are you really telling me how to manage my class? After what happened in yours this morning?”

“Technically it happened before class—”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Yes. And so many times  _ in _ class during the last two months. Hence the repeated detentions.”

His tone lacked the playful tone he usually reserved for her, and their sharpness stabbed at her. It was such a Slytherin thing to do, to hone in on her weakness and plunge in the knife. Slytherin, and not in a good way. 

“At least I’m willing to correct them properly. I haven’t seen any of your fifth-years in detention, despite your complaints about their behavior,” Hermione said.

Draco’s face pinched, his lips pressed tightly together. He stalked over to the supply closet and pulled jars of ingredients from the shelves with a little too much enthusiasm. “Here’s an idea. I’ll do what works for my class, and you can do what works for yours.”

She followed him and stood in the closet’s open doorway. “But it’s not particularly working, is it? It didn’t look to me like they were on the road to mending their ways when I stopped by this morning.”

Draco grunted, his eyes glued to a bottle of Mandrake juice.

“I just think that maybe instead of glaring, you could try talking to them as a mentor. If anyone has influence over young Purebloods—” 

Draco spun around. A jar of leeches, tucked under his elbow, sloshed sickeningly. “I put in plenty of effort to influence them. What they need isn’t a pat on the head. What they need is for someone to call them out.”

He stepped closer until the toes of their shoes were nearly touching. What were they arguing about again? She couldn’t remember. He was so close, she could see the muscles twitching in his hands, those same hands that had wrapped around her waist. She could see the tiny lines on his lips, those same lips that teased hers. “I…” She swallowed. 

“If they don’t show up to detention in five minutes, does that mean we get to leave?” Tomás’ familiar sarcastic tone echoed through the dungeon, and the spell was broken.

With one last glance at the tension behind Draco’s eyes, Hermione cleared her throat and scurried back into the room. 

“Aw, bat bogeys.” Teddy’s face fell. “I’m already behind on my Astronomy homework.”

Tomás scoffed. “Right. Because that’s what you were going to do if we got off tonight.”

Teddy shrugged and slid into one of the chairs at the table closest to the supply closet. 

Draco, as it turned out, had more than one jar of leeches hidden in the upper corner of his supply closet. Hermione counted no less than six jars lined up on the table, shining a horrifying murky green in the dim dungeon light. 

“I’m afraid my supply of leeches has begun to spoil.” Draco unscrewed the lid of the first jar, and Hermione flew to cover her nose with the sleeve of her robes. They smelled even more disgusting than they looked.

“You will separate the moldy ones from the fresh ones. When you’re finished with that, I believe the frog eyes are in a similar state.” With a wave of his wand, Draco conjured a large bucket of galvanized steel. The leeches made a sickening splash as he dumped them in.

The boys grimaced and rolled up their sleeves. Well, it served them right. Maybe next time they would think twice before they literally turned her classroom upside down.

Once all six jars had been emptied into the bucket of horror, Draco turned on his heel and stalked back to his desk, not even sparing her a glance. Hermione bit her lip. At least his stony silence meant kissing was off the table for tonight.

But as long as she was stuck in here, she should distract herself. She really couldn’t be too safe, especially after that loaded moment in the supply closet earlier. She reached into her beaded bag and pulled out last week’s multiple choice test. 

Just as her red pen struck through number twelve on Susan’s sheet, a rustle from the leech table caught her attention.

Teddy was hunched over, his head nearly on Tomás’ shoulder. He whispered into Tomás’ ear, ignoring the bucket of stench. Hermione frowned. The longer they took to finish their task, the longer she would be stuck trying not to stare at the stern crease between Draco’s eyebrows as he rifled through his stack of parchments. 

She sighed. If there was anything she hated, it was being interrupted from her work. She was about to pull her face into the glare that Draco had so annoyingly tutored her on when it occurred to her: this was an opportunity.

She’d been looking at the problem all wrong, with her textbooks and teaching strategies. What she needed was to get to the bottom of things—figure out the root cause. Find their motivation.

She glanced through her eyelashes at the pair, still whispering to each other in excited tones. There was something they didn’t want her to know, and if she could just be sneaky enough, she might be able uncover it.

But she couldn’t see much when their backs were turned. Hermione glanced around the room, at the stacks of cauldrons in the corner, at the tidy herb garden under the enchanted sunlight orb. There had to be some excuse she could make to get close enough without making them suspicious. 

And then she spied it. Right behind Draco’s head was a bottle of Firewhiskey. If a little stress drinking on a night of detention wasn’t believable, what was?

MIght as well walk quietly, however, so as to catch them as unaware as possible. Hermione’s chair squeaked as she slid it out from under her, and she froze. The boys were still whispering, apparently unaware. With a slow, silent breath, she tiptoed closer. When she was three feet behind their chairs, she spied a paper in a shockingly familiar shade of violent purple, clutched to Tomás’ chest. 

She was close enough to make out some of the whispers now. Tomás’ voice pitched a few decibels louder on certain words—S _ pain. Legendary. Watch. _

There was writing on that paper, writing that was sure to hold a clue. 

She inched closer and peered down at the page. Her heart sank; there wasn’t much there. Not much at all.

_ Let me know what the entrance fee is. Be sure to keep a close eye out; I have a feeling we’re closer than we think.  _

An entrance fee. Some kind of contest. She could see Tomás entering a contest, show-off that he was, but what competitions were looming that required a fee? Hogwarts certainly didn’t offer any. She’d have to do some research on that later.

No signature, but that hardly mattered—she’d recognize that stationary anywhere. 

“Granger! What in Merlin’s magical earth are you doing?” Draco’s voice was sharp, just as sharp as it had been in the supply closet. He was still angry. She never meant for him to be angry with her.

Hermione jumped. “Focus on your leeches, boys. I don’t care to be here all night.” Well that was smooth. Why couldn't she have remembered the Firewhisky, like in her original plan? Oh yeah, because panicking under pressure was what she’d always done. 

And just like that, the paper was gone. Shoved into the pockets of Tomás’ robes, most likely. 

Teddy frowned, a boyish expression that reminded Hermione of when he’d been five and dropped his french vanilla gelato onto the sidewalk in front of Florean Fortescue’s. He glanced at Malfoy and then back to Hermione. 

“It wasn’t her fault, you know, that you have to babysit us again,” Teddy said.

Tomás stuck his elbow into Teddy’s ribs. His eyes darted back to Malfoy, and he put his hand around his neck in a gesture that vaguely resembled a tie.

Then they were back to whispering again. It was extraordinarily irritating, and not only because she was secretly desperate to know what they were talking about. The bucket of leeches sat on the table, stinking up the dungeon while the detention duo schemed about Merlin-knew-what. With an aggravated groan, Hermione pulled her chair up to their table. “The leeches aren’t getting any fresher. Do I really have to sit here and watch your every move in order to make this detention happen?”

It was like they didn’t care if they were here all night. What first year wants to spend the evening smelling mouldy leeches, instead of in front of a roaring fire in the Gryffindor common room? Hermione rubbed her hands together. With the draft in the potions dungeon breezing through her robes, a fire and a cup of hot tea sounded divine. “Get. To. Sorting,” she said, in the firmest teacher voice she could manage. 

The boys shared a loaded glance, but they reached into the bucket and pulled out handfuls of horror under Hermione’s watchful glare.

“Really, though. You can’t be mad at Herm—Professor Granger for assigning us another detention. You should have seen what George’s gravity bomb did to her classroom,” continued Teddy. He sounded anxious, probably due to the fuzzy white-splotched leech dangling from between his thumb and pointer fingers. She’d be uncomfortable too, if she had to touch that monstrosity.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, but didn’t even bother to close his book. “My irritation with your teacher has nothing to do with you, nor is it any of your business.”

Hermione fiddled with her red pen. If she hadn’t been sure he was mad at her before, now she had no doubt. 

“But if you’re not mad about the detention, then what—” 

Tomás elbowed Teddy again, cutting off his speech. “It’s about the tie, duh. Look how stupid he looks wearing it. I’ll bet he threw a temper tantrum when she made him wear it.”

Hermione snorted. He was throwing a temper tantrum alright, but it wasn’t about the tie. He was just too proud to accept her fair and helpful criticism of his discipline techniques.

Draco sneered. “It is not about the tie. Now I think you’ll remember that I’ve asked you to keep your nose in your own owl post.”

_ Owl post. _ Hermione tapped her chin. Between the glitter explosion, the gravity bomb, and her fight with Draco, she’d almost forgotten about the purple envelope that had started it all. It sat abandoned on her magic-proof desk, next to her empty coffee cup. She’d never had the chance to read it, and now she couldn’t even get to it, not without crawling across her ceiling. 

But at least the boys were working in earnest now. Hermione pulled her wand from her pocket and summoned her stack of student papers. Wind howled against the windows, nearly drowning out the steady  _ plunk-plunk-plunk  _ of leeches plopping into jars or trash bins. Finally Teddy’s fingers scraped the bottom of the bucket, and Hermione packed her graded stack of papers back into her bag. 

Draco must have been paying at least a little attention, despite appearing to have his nose to his desk, because he peered up at them with piercing eyes. “If the bucket is empty, detention is dismissed. I’ve had enough of all of you for one night.” 

Teddy shared a meaningful look with Tomás. He held leaned over and whispered in his ear, hand cupped to the side of his face. 

“What are you waiting for, the decomposing frog eyes? I said  _ dismissed _ !” 

Teddy stood slowly from the chair, his shoulders hunched forward and his hands wound together. “I’m sorry Professor Malfoy, but... may I speak to you?” Teddy made eye contact with Hermione, then his eyes darted back to Draco. “Alone?”

Draco grumbled unintelligibly and shoved the parchments to the side. 

What Hermione wouldn’t have given for a pair of Fred’s extendable ears. She looped her bag over her shoulder and padded across the room. Maybe if she was nice, Draco would tell her what Teddy had to say later. 

* * *

  
  


It would have been a beautiful, lazy Saturday if she’d been able to stop thinking about how angry her neighbor was. Hermione found herself re-reading the same passage of  _ Hogwarts: A History _ over and over again, absorbing nothing. At least Meowfoy had taken a break from singing at the front door and was doing what a good Kneazle ought to—keeping her lap warm. It was almost like the blissfully peaceful years they had spent together pre-Malfoy, except for the occasional indignant meow. “I know, Draco. I know you want to see your girlfriend. Unfortunately, Daddy and I are having a little tiff, so she is currently unavailable.” 

Meowfoy’s eyes narrowed into slits, as if she’d told him tonight’s dinner would be chopped liver instead of salmon. “I know, it’s not fair, is it? You’re getting all caught up in the middle of things.”

She dropped her book onto the coffee table and stroked behind his gorgeously grey ears—grey like piercing eyes. Grey like designer slacks peeking out from flowing robes. Grey that overran her mind and captivated her attention, even in its absence.

Even though she’d been right, thank-you-very-much, she’d never won any friends by picking at people’s flaws. She should apologize. March right up to his door and rap, and when it opened, throw her pride to the wayside and repent of her meddling. 

Ron’s first-year face popped into her mind—the way his voice had floated through the hallway on Halloween. “It’s Levi-OOOO-sa, not LevioSAR. She’s a nightmare, honestly. It’s no wonder she hasn’t got any friends!”

And here she had gone again, chasing away the only friend who cared to seek her out on a regular basis. The one person who wanted to hang around on a Friday night, who had time to sit with her and help her through her research. 

Harry and Ron would always hold special places in her heart, but they had their own lives. Draco had filled the lonely void their busyness had left, and now she had chased him away.

She kept replaying her words, the intonation in her voice from their Friday night fight. Even in her own memory, she sounded superior. Swotty. Insufferable. 

She sighed. Romantic involvement or not, she really ought to fix this. She did, after all, have to put up with him professionally, and she didn’t need any workplace animosity. 

“I’m sorry, Meowfoy. Mummy has some work to do.” With a steadying breath, she lifted him off her lap and placed him on the couch. His back arched into a serpentine shape, his jaw dropping into a long, sleepy yawn. 

The time for delay was over. Once Hermione Granger made up her mind to do something, no amount of dragon-riding, government corruption, or fear of failure could stop her. She marched right up to her front door and swung it open. What she saw on the other side made her gasp. 

Draco was already there, eyebrows drawn together and hands wiggling in front of his chest in an uncharacteristic show of panic. “Granger. We have a problem. We need to take her to a healer. It’s… it’s moving.”

Of all the possibilities—an angry rant about her behavior yesterday, an official break-up notice, or perhaps a speech on why their kiss had been a mistake—this had never crossed her mind. He sounded like the ceiling was caving in on him. Her apologies would just have to wait. Hermione placed a hand on his shoulder in what she hoped was a calming gesture. “Deep breaths, Draco. What is moving?”

“I thought she was just getting fat because she’s been lounging about and eating too much. But no.” He shook his head violently. “There’s dark magic afoot. Today when she was sitting on my lap, I felt it move.”

“Kneazles move all the time. They are living beings.”

Draco snatched Hermione’s hand and dragged her to his apartment door. “Come and see for yourself. You’ll know what to do.”

Hermione shivered at the sudden contact. He must not be that angry if he was willing to touch her. Or perhaps he’d forgotten his irritation in his panic, and he’d unleash it later when she least suspected.

When they entered Draco’s flat, his cat was lying on her chaise, poking her nose at a diagram of a mouse in a gilded-edged book. She barely raised her head in acknowledgment of the newcomers.

“See? What did I tell you? She’s practically catatonic. She barely waddles over to her food dish. And look at this!” He gently wrapped his arms under the cat’s front legs and lifted her to his chest. 

Hermione placed a hand over the large lump of belly. It felt like the cat was hiding an overfilled water balloon under her fur. Tiny bumps thumped, almost pulsed through the cat’s tightened skin.

“Um. Draco. Have you… were you around a lot of animals growing up?” She kept her voice deliberately calm and patient. 

“Just the peacocks. My—” Draco swallowed. “—father would take me to the magical zoo sometimes. But my parents were never big on allowing animals in the manor. They said they would soil the upholstery. Of course there was Great Aunt Felis, but she kept her Kneazles at her summer home—” 

“I see. And did you, or did you not, opt to have your Kneazle fixed upon adoption?”

Draco’s eyebrows drew together. “Fixed? What’s wrong with her? Has she been broken this whole time?”

Oh, Merlin. Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s a Muggle expression. It’s an operation given to cats so that they can’t have babies. ”

“Oh, you mean spayed? Of course Furry isn’t spayed. But it shouldn’t matter, she’s an indoor Kneazle.”

Furry? Really? No wonder Draco had kept his cat’s name a secret all this time. Why not name her something sophisticated, or after some star or constellation. Leo, perhaps? Or Felis? She couldn’t believe he’d named his cat Furry, of all things, and then had the audacity to call “Meowy” a pedestrian name. But, she was trying not to sound like a swot. She forced her eyebrows down and scratched the top of Furry’s head. 

“That’s impossible. Furry can’t be pregnant.” Draco placed Furry gently back onto her chaise and paced the floor, pulling his fingers through his silky hair. “She’s never left the flat, except on a leash. The only other Kneazle she’s come in contact with is Meowy, and you told me he was neutered.”

Hermione grimaced at the memory. She normally tried not to think about the days she had spent locked up in Madam Pomfrey’s hospital wing, despite Draco’s kindness throughout the ordeal. “Well she must have escaped without your knowledge. Meowy is fixed. He was fixed before I ever adopted him.” 

Draco threw his hands up towards the ceiling. “Then explain this, Granger! You come in here, tell me my cat is pregnant, and then tell me it can’t possibly be your cat’s fault?”

“I don’t see how it could be. In case you didn’t know, Draco, fixed means infertile. Incapable of producing kittens.” Hermione tapped her chin. “What I don’t understand is, with all of the books you’ve been reading about Kneazles, why didn’t you realize she was pregnant weeks ago?”

Draco frowned. “Well, seeing as I trusted you, I saw no reason to read the chapters about pregnancy. Why would I? You told me he was neutered!”

“He is!” Hermione was almost shouting now, which was ridiculous. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to end up in exactly the same situation she’d been in last night. She took a deep breath to the count of three. She stalked over to the couch and plunked herself down, right on that cozy spot, where the leather ran smooth and the cushion dipped. 

When she looked back at him over the back, his eyes were on her, calculating. “Hermione, did you say you adopted your cat from  _ The Magical Menagerie?” _

“Two years ago. Why?”

Draco tapped his chin. “From Dr. Calamity. The same Dr. Calamity who advised you to keep Meowy house-bound with a bundle of sage. And would it be presumptuous of me to infer that when you adopted Meowy, you asked Dr. Calamity if he was neutered?”

“Of course I did. The pet overpopulation in Britain is everyone’s concern. Responsible citizens are obligated to ensure they don’t contribute to the problem.” Hermione frowned. “I’m guessing you didn’t know, or surely you would have had…  _ Furry _ … spayed.”

With slow, deliberate steps, Draco stepped around the couch and settled in on the opposite side. “It’s not generally done, Hermione.”

Hermione’s eyebrows furrowed. “Why not?”

“Kneazles aren’t known to make babies with just any pretty set of whiskers they come across. They need a soul connection. So while your muggle cats might be a dime a dozen, Kneazle kittens are fairly rare. Most magical creature specialists advise against sterilization, as surprise pregnancies normally aren’t a concern. Especially for an indoor Kneazle.”

“Did Dr. Calamity tell you that?”

“No, Great Aunt Felis did. I didn’t adopt Furry from  _ Magical Menagerie. _ ”

Hermione nodded. “From a breeder, then? Harry’s neighbor, Mrs. Figg, used to breed Kneazles. They probably have proper pedigree charts and everything.”

“Have I never told you this story?” Draco smiled warmly. “Furry was a library cat. She considered herself a patron of the Liverpool Central Library, which is, of course, Muggle-owned. She loved to sneak in there and cuddle up on the books, especially in the nonfiction section.” Furry padded over to the couch and put her front paws against the cushions. She was probably too fat to make the leap, or perhaps too tired. Draco took pity on her and scooped her up onto his lap. 

“The librarian hated it. She was a real Madam Pince type.” 

Hermione smirked. She could just picture Madam Pince, her sunken cheeks quivering with fury, ripping her hands through her hair as she vanished cat fur from her precious tomes. “So how did you discover all this? Surely you don’t frequent Muggle libraries.”

“You’d be surprised, Granger.” Draco scratched the underside of Furry’s chin. “When I recognized her for what she was, and heard that wretched woman screeching at her, I knew I had to take her home. She’s much happier here, so long as I provide her with reading material.”

Hermione reached over and ran her hands over Furry’s distended belly. “And you’re sure she hasn’t escaped at all?”

“Even if she had, there’s no way these aren’t Meowy’s kittens. Kneazles need a soul connection, remember?”

Hermione nodded. It certainly explained Meowy’s desperation to get to Furry. “It must have been during my hospital stay. They were together for a whole week. So that was… the last week of September? And today’s November 3rd? So that would put her at about…”

Draco’s fingers brushed Hermione’s as he joined her in stroking Furry’s long, wavy fur. “Five weeks. How long until they are born?”

“A cat’s gestational period is typically between eight and nine weeks.” A prick of sadness pierced Hermione’s heart, and she frowned. “My mother didn’t like to get her cats fixed. She was fascinated with the “miracle of life”.” Her mother’s face, eyes lit with childlike excitement and stroking newborn kittens, flashed through her mind like a lightning bolt. Maybe she was out there, in Australia, mothering over a litter of kittens at this very moment.

Draco nodded, placed Furry gently onto the floor, and stood. Cat hair clung to the lap of his black slacks. Nothing could beat the Hippogriff tie, but it was the second most undignified thing she’d ever seen him wear. Hermione almost giggled, but she didn’t want to start another fight, not when things were finally calming down. 

He paced over to the coffee table and plucked a book from the top of a tall stack. Hermione tilted her head to read the titles. “Did you buy every single book on Kneazles the bookstore had? And also— _ The Art of Tea?” _

“Well, if you’re going to stick around why don’t you make yourself useful?” He pressed  _ The Wizard’s Guide to Kneazle Biology  _ into her hands, and she sank deeper into her spot on his plush leather couch. 

She flipped to the index. Whoever had written this book must have had a very Muggle sense of humor. She turned a section titled  _ What to Expect When Your Familiar is Expecting  _ and skimmed through. “Nine weeks. It says here that Kneazle’s pregnancies are very similar to cat’s, with the exception of a few extra magical occurrences and an unusual yearning to be near their mate.”

Draco chuckled. “Why am I not surprised? Maybe we should just move Meowy here full time. They’d both be happier that way.”

“Then what am I supposed to do without my furball to keep my lap warm while I read in the evenings?”

“You could always come over here. I doubt he’ll want you when his girlfriend is available for cuddling, but I’m sure there’s someone else who would be willing to keep you warm.”

“Who would want to cuddle a meddling know-it-all who sticks her nose everywhere it doesn’t belong?” Time to do what she had marched up to her front door to do. No Kneazle pregnancy crisis was going to ruin her apology. The idea of Draco holding a secret grudge against her turned her stomach. 

Draco’s eyes searched her face. “Cuddling with swots is my specialty, didn’t you know?” 

“Look, Draco—I’m sorry about what I said on Friday. It seems I can’t stop myself sometimes. Maybe that’s why I had so few friends as a child.”

As she lifted her eyes from the mottled browns, oranges, and whites of Furry’s coat to the clear grey of Draco’s eyes, she became aware of what little space lay between them—only a few inches of black leather couch. He reached out to stroke her chin with his pointer finger, and she melted into it.

“I already knew that about you, and I like you anyway.” A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Well, you know what we have to do now?”

Hermione shook her head. “I really don’t.”

“We have to walk across the street. I believe you have some questions for Dr. Calamity.”

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as I'm trying to post this tonight, my kitten (Draco Meowfoy, obviously) keeps putting his furry little paws up on the keyboard. I think he is trying to add his two cents, or maybe he is trying to say hello to all of his fans. So, a very meowy hello to all of you. Thank you for reading and reviewing!


	10. Chapter 10

“Hello, Mr. Malfoy. Miss Granger. How can I help you today?” Dr. Calamity dropped a bundle of twine-bound chamomile onto her front counter and placed her hands on her hips. 

Hermione bit her lip. She was not only frustrated, but also disappointed. Dr. Calamity had always been so confident, so professional. Every time they interacted, Hermione had felt that if she had decided to become a vet instead of a Hogwarts Professor, she would have turned out very much like the woman behind the counter.

To catch Dr. Calamity, who she so admired, in a mistake was shattering. 

“Put her up there, Draco. Let’s see what she has to say for herself,” said Hermione. She cuddled Meowfoy up under her chin and stroked behind his ears. His purr vibrated through her ribcage and brought the smallest smile to her face.

Furry didn’t look too happy about being placed on the cold steel countertop. She glared at Draco, then busied herself, licking non-existent dirt from her paw. 

Dr. Calamity, on the other hand, looked ecstatic. “Congratulations!” She placed strong hands on either side of Furry’s belly bulge. ‘Oh, what a blessing. Now let me see…” 

Hermione’s eyebrows scrunched together. Did Dr. Calamity really not realize what was going on? Something was fishy around here, and it wasn’t Furry’s breath.

“Yes, I think…” Dr. Calamity squinted at the ceiling as her fingers kneaded over Furry’s belly. “Three, if I’m not mistaken. You must be over the moon!”

“As a matter of fact, we are not,” said Hermione.

Dr. Calamity frowned. “I don’t understand. There’s no greater blessing than a litter of Kneazle kittens. And three? It’s the epitome of good luck. Almost as good as a dose of Felix Felicis.”

“Really? You have no idea why I’m upset?”

“I really don’t. Furry isn’t even your cat.”

Hermione let out a breath so forced, Meowy turned his head away in indignation. “No, she isn’t. But Meowy is. And I would like for you to kindly explain how it is that Meowy, who I purchased here, from you, is having kittens with Draco’s cat. Meowy, who you promised me was neutered.”

“Well that’s just nonsense.” The corner of Dr. Calamity’s mouth twitched up slightly as she spoke. “I never neuter. It would be inhumane.”

“You told me you neutered him!”

“Don’t be silly, Miss Granger. I promised nothing of the sort.” Dr. Calamity’s voice had lost all of the childish glee it had adopted at the sight of Furry’s pregnant belly. It was cold now, with an edge as sharp as Meowy’s claws. 

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “I… you…” She distinctly remembered—the level look Dr. Calamity had given her. The steady tone Hermione had trusted and respected so much.

“Now, back to business. I recommend a diet high in omega-3 fatty acids for all pregnant Kneazles. Good for smart kittens, you know. Helps their brain development. What food do you have her on?”

Draco scratched the back of his head. “She only eats fresh meat, and I offer her cat grass, of course…”

It hit Hermione like a curse from behind. It had all been intentional. The sage. The neutering. They weren't oversights; they were lies. 

Hermione had read Dr. Calamity’s book all wrong. She’d read the praises of her knowledge, the chapters detailing her professionalism, and never given a single thought to what simmered below the surface. 

Hermione had missed it. She’d ignored the chapter where Dr. Calamity told her to use sage to keep Meowfoy inside, fully knowing it would have the opposite effect. She’d been blind to the passage where Dr. Calamity assured Hermione that Meowfoy was neutered, knowing full well he wasn’t. Dr. Calamity’s story wasn’t about honesty, it was about control—underhanded, deceitful control for whatever Dr. Calamity thought was a noble cause. If Hermione were a tea kettle, she would be whistling.

Draco shot a quick glance at her, then stepped sideways until their shoulders met. His hand rubbed soothing circles into the middle of her back. “Well, thank you Dr. Calamity. I think we’ll be going now.”

Hermoine had never seen Draco scoop his cat into his arms so quickly. Furry looked startled, but nuzzled into his arms as he pinched Hermione’s elbow and led her towards the door. 

“Wait. I wasn’t finished.” Hermione glued her feet to the floor.

Draco grimaced. “I’m not so sure this is a good—”

She spun around and stomped back up to Dr. Calamity and her steel-topped counter. “We are not finished here. You can’t do this. You can’t just lie to people to get them to do what you want.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Dr. Calamity tucked the short strands of her bob behind her ear.

“You think you’re nobel for what you do, but you’re wrong.” Heat flooded Hermione’s face, and magic fizzled beneath her fingertips. “This isn’t the way to change the world. And if you think for one minute that I’m going to stand by and let you get away with this, you’re dead wrong.” Hermione felt a cold sort of satisfaction with the deadly venom that laced her voice. 

“Ok, time to go.” Draco snatched a book on Kneazle Prenatal Nutrition off the counter with his free hand and waved it at Dr. Calamity. “I’m assuming I need this. You can put it on my tab. Good day.” He pushed the book against Hermione’s back and guided her out of the shop.

“What was that for?” she snarled as the door swung shut behind them.

“You were about to do something I knew you’d regret in the morning.” He shot her a sly grin. “This is not the way to get more time with your auror friends.”

Hermione scratched the back of Meowfoy’s neck with enthusiastic aggression. “I wasn’t going to do anything.”

“Right. You weren’t going to turn her into a carrot, or make her belch up slugs, or paint “Liar” across her face in painful boils.”

Hermione glanced longingly back at the door. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe she lied to me.” With a shake of her head, she stepped down the sidewalk, away from the shop. Might as well head home and salvage what was left of her Saturday.

“I know love, I know.” Draco sighed. “But think on the bright side—now you get to spend the next four weeks with me and my cat, or else risk being clawed to death in your sleep. Even your friends can’t steal you away.”

Hermione looked down at Furry’s long tail, twitching with every step Draco took. “This is a bit pathetic, but you’re the closest friend I have right now. Harry and Ron are both so busy with their careers, and I hardly have time to even think about seeing anyone else.”

Draco shot her a sideways smile, exactly the kind of smile that set her heart racing. “Your closest friend? Really? And all this time I thought that was Lavender.”

Hermione snorted. It was much too beautiful of a day to be thinking about Lavender. Or Dr. Calamity. “Tell you what, Draco. Let’s go home to your couch. I’ll show you exactly how lame Hermione Granger is on a Saturday night.”

Twenty minutes later, she was wearing her cat-print leggings, snuggled under an exceptionally fuzzy blanket with a notebook and scouring chapter 23 of  _ Magical Law: Intentional Torts and You.  _ Meowy and Furry had ignored all the cat hideaways, probably due to Furry’s increasing girth, and snuggled up between their owners instead. 

Everything was perfect, except for one nagging guilt. Hermione ran her fingers along the margins of her book. Last month, last week even, it might not have bothered her. But today, it itched at the back of her mind. “Draco?”

He glanced up at her from his book. “Yes?”

“I—I’m sorry.” 

“Uh-oh. You didn’t sign me up for another tie contest, did you? 

“No! No.” Though after her disastrous week, it might not be the worst idea in the world. “I meant about your cat. You know, the—” Hermine bit her lip. “—accidental pregnancy.”

“Why, was it a secret plot all along? Trying to trap me into a marriage, were you Granger?” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just that… I should have known better. I never should have trusted that witch.” All this time she thought she had Dr. Calamity figured out. It turned out Hermione hadn’t known anything at all. “How could I have been so stupid?”

“Stupid? Hermione Granger is never stupid.” Draco dropped his book onto the carpet and leaned forward. “Naive, maybe…”

“I let you down. You trusted me, and I failed spectacularly.”

“See, that’s where I disagree. I don’t think this is a failure at all.” Draco slid off the couch, past the cats, and sat back down on Hermione’s other side. “You see, if Furry had never become pregnant, you wouldn’t be sitting here on my couch. And I wouldn’t have the opportunity to do this.” 

His finger trailed up and down the line of her jaw; his eyes calculated the distance between her eyes and her lips. She should stop him. Under no circumstances should she discover whether or not his lips were still just as soft as they were last week. But as she opened her mouth to force out the bitter words, they wouldn’t come. She sat there, staring with wide eyes, at the curve of his mouth—at the point of his chin.

“I can’t imagine it any other way.” Draco moved his wandering hand to her jaw and inched forward. Now was the time. If she wanted to stop this, to back away, this was her chance. Instead, she found herself leaning in. She closed the final distance between them and pressed her lips to his.

Not negotiated this time; not given out of obligation. The guilt hit her hard—this wasn’t for her class—it was for her, and her alone. And it was far sweeter than before.

Her heart floated up into her throat as his hand caressed her upper back. She should pull away. Every second she tasted him on her lips was another string that tied her heart to his. A phantom pain at the image of a pair of scissors cutting those strings twinged at her, and she pushed closer into his arms.

Because how many more times would she be able to do this, before he realized that she was never going to fit by his side, was never going to be the picture of perfection at his Mother’s tea table?

Or perhaps even worse—before they were found out, and Hermione lost her career, her passion project? Could she really live with being responsible for generations of pure-blooded students being left to fester in unhealthy ideologies?

When her thoughts were so overpowering that she could no longer feel the softness of his lips moving against hers or the tingling trails of his hand’s path up and down her back, she pulled away, her eyes fixed on her lap.

“I still can’t, Draco.” She gave a tiny shake of her head. “I should go.”

She scooped Meowfoy into her arms and fled the scene of her crime, kicking herself for her moment of weakness. Things were never going to get easier, not if she couldn’t reign herself in. And by the way she already craved that rich scent of cedarwood, the warmth of his fingers against her chin, she wasn’t sure how much longer she could cling to her logic. 

* * *

  
  


Monday and Tuesday were surprisingly quiet. Well, classroom-wise, anyway. Not a single confiscation. Not a single detention. 

Unfortunately, Meowy seemed to have taken it upon himself to make up for the peace in her classroom by making her flat unbearably noisy. She didn’t have the heart to silence him, but she sure as spellwork placed a noise-cancelling charm over her door. She couldn’t face Draco, not after she’d run out on him. Not after she’d proven herself unable to exercise basic self-control.

So, instead of doing the compassionate thing and bringing Meowy to visit his soulmate, she was doing the responsible thing and escaping temptation by running away to Hogwarts at 6:00 AM.

Besides, it was her first day back in her regular classroom after last week’s anti-gravity fiasco. She really ought to make sure everything was in order, just in case.

The aromas of dusty books, ink pens, and a hint of gunpowder greeted her as she walked through the door. And there was something else—something familiar, something she couldn’t quite place. With a wave of her wand, the sconces on the classroom walls lit up the room, and she spied it.

On her desk, resting next to that infernal purple envelope, was a white paper bag. Odd. She couldn’t remember visiting  _ The Sword in the Scone  _ last week. She crinkled open the top, and her confusion deepened. It wasn’t the familiar smell of almonds and poppyseed that wafted from the bag. No, this was something sweeter. Something perhaps a bit forbidden.

She reached inside and pulled out a scone topped with a tiny silver sword. The pastry warmed her frigid hands as she held it over her desk. Wrapped around the sword’s blade was a tiny strip of paper. 

The paper crinkled as she carefully unwound it to reveal tiny words, so tiny they must have been charmed to appear. “Go on,” they said, “nobody’s here. Nobody will see—or hear—if you do. Why not indulge yourself?”

She sank into her chair with a groan. Now that was just unfair. She could already taste the juicy cherries from the bakery’s pride and joy melting on her tongue. That prat. She could see exactly what he was doing, and she couldn’t stand it.

He was the scone. It was just like that day in the bakery, which though it had only been months, felt like years ago. Still, the memory of his words rang clearly in her mind: “I think you’re afraid of a little indulgence. Afraid to give yourself what you want.”

The unfortunate thing, the truly unfortunate thing, was that he was right. At six o’clock in the morning, her classroom was empty. There was not a soul here to watch her indulgence. A wicked smile crossed her face and she pulled the sword from the scone, triggering its enchantment.

The charm’s disembodied voice echoed off the walls, filled the classroom, and made her heart lurch for reasons she didn’t understand. “She has pulled the sword from the scone! She is the one true king!” 

A grin spread slowly across Hermione’s face. No witnesses. No reprimanding glares. No consequences.

She broke the corner off her scone and closed her eyes as its flaky crumbs melted into her mouth. It was divine. Perfection. And before she knew it, the last piece had disappeared into her hungry mouth.

And now she had nothing to do but tidy her classroom and stare at that purple envelope on her desk. She sighed. She’d been around George’s shop enough to know that his glitter bombs only had one good pop in them. So what was she afraid of?

With a deep, steading breath, she popped the flap open and pulled out the contents.

_ Hermione Dear, _

_ Why, whatever do you mean, meddling in your affairs? I’m wounded. That Malfoy character, on the other hand... Why, I’d be happy to meddle in his.  _

_ Confessions aside, I have to say I’m interested. As you know, I’ve always been a man of curiosity. Send me the details and I’m all yours.  _

_ Dear old Headmistress McGonagall might just grow a second tail, right there next to her tabby-striped first one, and I’d so love to see it.  _

_ And just because you’ve asked so nicely, I’m going to take pity on you. A token of good faith, you see. After all, you’ve given me so many good ideas.  _

_ Love and kisses, _

_ George _

_ P.S. “Chew and swallow” _

Well, it was about as good as she could have hoped for—silly, half indecipherable, and a whole lot of denial. She hadn’t expected him to confess to anything, but at least he was willing to consider her program.

Which meant she’d better start working on it. The nice thing about being early was that she had all this time and a stack of papers and pens at the ready. By the time her students piled into the classroom, she’d made considerable progress. Hopefully it wouldn’t be a dead end pursuit.

Hermione crossed her fingers and pointed her wand at her classroom’s dusty blackboard. 

She’d been using this particular spell to project movies from Muggle DVDs for years, but it failed about 25 percent of the time, for mysterious reasons. “ _ Proditus!”  _ After a few seconds of fuzzy static, the image of a red shag carpet with a plate of tater tots appeared on the board. “ _ Mora!”  _ The movie paused.

“Today we will be watching a prime example of a parody: _ Napoleon Dynamite _ . But don’t let its genre fool you—it’s a great, unglamorized look into American high schools, as well as American Muggle culture, though much of what you’ll see is universal, as well. We can discuss the differences at the film’s conclusion—yes, Tomás?”

Excitement beamed from Tomás’ face. “My Mum told me about this movie. She said it’s the most ridiculous and hilarious thing she’s ever seen, but she’s not sure I would understand it.”

“That’s right, your mother’s American, isn’t she?”

Tomás nodded. “She grew up in Idaho.”

“Fascinating! Yes, this movie was filmed in Idaho, as a matter of fact. I believe your mother would have a particular insight on the culture. If you would like, you could complete an interview with her on the film for extra—”

Hermione never got to finish her sentence. It was interrupted by the formation of thick orange and purple clouds swirling near the ceiling of the classroom. She was going to kill George. She turned to Teddy, seated in the opposite corner of the room. “Have you learned nothing all year? Detention.” 

Clumpy bunches of spaghetti rained down from the fluorescent clouds. A saucy meatball bounced off Hermione’s head, and she bit back a scream. A portable food storm. She never should have given George a copy of  _ Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs.  _

Teddy looked at his desk and shrugged. He didn’t even bother trying to deny it. “What? You told us Muggles like to have a snack while they watch a film. I was just helping.”

Hermione growled and transfigured a blank page from her desk into a tarp and fixed it under the storm to catch the falling food. Meatballs and spaghetti noodles plunked against the tarp like raindrops on an umbrella. It was keeping the mess off of her students for now, but how long before it filled and spilled over?

Hermione’s eyes roved over her desk. There had to be something, some solution to—and then she saw it. George’s letter. She ran her eyes down the page, all the way to his nonsensical postscript. 

“Chew and swallow!” As soon as she said it, a breeze began to blow away the strange orange and blue clouds. Like the last raindrops of a dying storm, a few meatballs and a strand of spaghetti plopped against the top before the room went silent. Hermione wiped sweat from her brow with the sleeve of her robe and collapsed into her chair.

She should have predicted this; this outbreak of bad behavior. After all, the only thing that had whipped her classroom into shape in the first place had been the ridiculous tie contest. 

At least she’d been able to handle this disaster on her own. She pulled her wand from her pocket and vanished the tarp of spaghetti and meatballs. McGonagall would have probably fired Hermione on the spot if she’d caused her to have to rinse marinara sauce out of her pristine bun. 

“Problem solved,” Hermione sighed. “We will resume class as normal.” Maybe Hermione would even “forget” to submit a detention report for this mortifying incident.

It was a good thing it was a movie day, because it was obvious that she needed to regroup. She doubted the students would be motivated by horrible ties again; it had already been done. She needed something fresh. Besides, if Draco’s price last time was kisses, she could only imagine what it might be next time. 

Part of her yearned to find out.

The other, sensible part recalled in perfect detail exactly all the rules she would be breaking if she did. It imagined her knocking over an heirloom teapot as she reached for the sugar bowl, Narcissa Malfoy pursing her lips and shaking her head.

She was so distracted, she didn’t even notice the movie playing in the background until the final credits rolled. Forcing her thoughts aside, she stood and placed her hands on her hips. “I want two feet of parchment on how the culture portrayed in the movie compares to the culture at Hogwarts. Class dismissed—and Tomás and Teddy?”

The boys’ eyes shot up to meet her frown.

“I’ll see you at 7 pm for your detentions, location pending.”

Twenty-five pairs of adolescent feet shuffled towards the front door. Hermione grumbled to herself. Detention meant seeing Draco. Draco meant temptation and teasing. 

She reached for her pen and parchment and scribbled a note. Though she insisted on Muggle paper for most things, parchment really was easier to enchant.

_ The detention twins are at it again. I guess I’ll see you tonight at 7. _

She waved her wand lazily at the note until it folded itself into an airplane. With a prod of her wand, it sailed down the hallway towards the dungeons. After half an hour, a parchment eagle landed gracefully on her desk.

_ Come down to the dungeons again. I could use some help classifying my new shipment of ladybird wings. _

Her hands were cold and clammy as she opened the Potions’ classroom door at exactly 7 pm that night. She’d planned to be strategically late, but it was a failed effort. Her feet had started moving towards him at 6:45 and refused to slow, no matter how she had reasoned with them. 

Draco smirked at her as she shuffled into the room and glanced around at the empty cauldrons.

“They’re not here yet?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I could use a little help back here.”

She did not want to go into the closet with him. That seemed like a very bad idea, especially considering what almost happened last time she’d been in that closet with him. But here he was, gesturing towards it, and really, how could she refuse? That would be rude, wouldn’t it?

She stepped forward until she was enveloped by the darkness of the storeroom, Draco’s shadow barely visible before her. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the light.

His fingers traced up and down her arms, sending a shiver up her spine.

“Hello, love,” he said. “I’ve missed you since Saturday.” His thumb was at her lower lip, and she melted. “I couldn’t stop thinking about this.”

Where was her willpower? She couldn't seem to muster even a knut’s worth. She must have been millimeters from his lips, so warm was the heat radiating from them, when a shuffle from the other room made her shoulders jump. 

The boys. They must have arrived, and were now seconds away from asking awkward questions about what she was doing with Draco in the potions closet with the lights off.

Without a backwards look, she turned on her heel and marched into the classroom. Tomás shot Teddy a huge grin and elbowed his side. Oh no. They had been caught, and they hadn’t even been doing anything worthwhile. Hermione felt her face grow warm with shame.

After a moment of awkward silence, Draco marched out of the closet with a cardboard box in his arms and raised his eyebrows. “You’re lucky boys—no leeches today. I have a shipment of ladybird wings that needs attention. I expect meticulous work from you two—I don’t want to see a single crumpled pair. You can sort them by color into these jars.” He gestured to a collection of containers on a low table near the supply cabinet.

The boys grimaced but seated themselves and rolled up their sleeves. As they ducked their heads towards the table, Draco leaned forward until his breath tickled Hermione’s ear. 

“And while they’re occupied with that, perhaps I could get your help? I have a matter that could use your expertise.”

Hermione glanced at the detention table, but the boys weren’t paying her any attention. Tomás was busy poking his wand at a large metal sheet, while Teddy watched with wide eyes. 

So she walked into the closet, Draco hot on her heels, and stared stupidly at the neat rows of jars. His hand landed on her shoulder, and her breath caught. 

“So, Professor Granger—I’ve been meaning to ask. How long do you think you can keep a pregnant Kneazle away from her mate before it qualifies as cruel and unusual punishment?”

Hermione sighed. He actually did want to talk business. She wasn’t sure if she was more frustrated with him for his mixed signals or herself for hoping for more. “Given the fuss those two have been making? I don’t think they’d be happy unless they were together constantly.”

“Are you suggesting a sleepover?” His voice was full of mischief.

“I’m suggesting that there was no immediate reason for you to pull me into this supply cabinet. I’m going to check on the boys.” She whirled around to make for the door—when had that closed?—but Draco caught her hands and held them to his chest. 

“Oh, so you want the entire school to know that my Kneazle is having your Kneazle’s babies?”

“Of course I don’t.”

“Hence, the closet.”

She swallowed and took a step back. “We’d better go check on the boys. There’s no end to the trouble they could cook up, even in ten minutes.”

“Wait.” Draco held his hand against the closed door. “I’ve been meaning to ask—Are you planning to attend next week’s gala?”

Oh yeah. The gala. The gala that she had been dreading ever since she’d realized it would mean watching Draco dance with another witch. Her lips pulled into a scowl. “Unfortunately, yes. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to make sure Tomás hasn’t set fire to your classroom.”

She pushed through the supply closet’s door and out into the dungeon. Teddy and Tomás shot her guilty looks before looking back to their ladybird wings, but nothing seemed to be out of place.

A tense silence hung over the room as Hermione watched them work, too afraid to glance up at her handsome—friend? He wasn’t her boyfriend, that was for sure—to tear her eyes away from them. Finally she could no longer stand the tension, and plunked herself down at the table in front of the box of ladybird wings.

The flat baking sheet Tomás had tinkered with earlier now emitted a soft pink glow. She poked it with her finger, and found a soft pillowy texture instead of cold steel. “Clever, Tomás. A soft surface to protect the fragile wings.” 

Tomás grinned. “My mom used to ask my father to cast it for her, for when she was playing with gunpowder. She said it helped in case her fingers got clumsy.” 

The ladybird wings rustled as Teddy reached into the jar for another handful. “I wish I could meet your mum. I’ll bet she knows all kinds of cool tricks.”

Hermione snorted. “Teddy, the last thing you need is a bunch of new tricks.”

But the look on Teddy’s face suggested otherwise. “I just can’t help it; it’s in my nature. I’m mischievous, just like my mum was.”

Hermione’s heart stopped. Of course. She’d read him all wrong; just as wrong as she’d read Dr. Calamity. She’d seen his actions, what he’d wanted her to see. She’d never looked past them to discover what simmered beneath. She bit the inside of her cheek and sorted a few ladybird wings on the tray before looking back up into Teddy’s downturned eyes. 

“You remind me of him, you know,” said Hermione.

Teddy grinned. “Who, George? Everyone says Thomas and I are the next Weasley twins.”

“Not George, no. I was thinking about your father.”

He shook his head. “I’m like my mother. Not my father.” Teddy untangled a pair of ruby wings from a pair of brilliant blue ones. “That’s what everyone says, anyway.”

“You have a little bit of both. Your mother’s fire; her quirkiness and determination. But I see your father, too—I see it when your eyebrows go crooked when you hear about a Muggle who’s been treated unfairly. I see it in the effort and deliberateness you lend to every one of my assignments. And I see it here—” She poked the tip of his nose. “That’s a Remus nose, 100%.” 

Teddy grinned. “I can do the other one, too.”

“Show me.”

Teddy wrinkled the skin on his face, and his nose grew pointed and shaggy until it resembled a wolf’s.

Hermione laughed. “Tonks would have loved that.”

With a smile, Hermione stood from the desk and wandered over to a back table to work on her grading. Detention would likely never be over if she kept distracting the boys, and she might as well use the time to catch up on her work. 

Unfortunately, she found it impossible to focus. She tried to keep her eyes off of him and on her student essays, but they seemed to be pulled by an invisible string. Would he have Pansy Parkinson on his arm at the gala this year, or Astoria Greengrass? That must have been why he wanted to bring it up in the supply closet earlier. He wanted her blessing to be seen with someone else.

But she couldn’t blame him. After all, he certainly couldn’t bring her. She’d be fired before she could say “fraternization”. And as one of the hosts, it was traditional for him to bring a plus one. She just dreaded seeing him, dressed to stun, with another witch on his arm. The thought tied her heart in knots and made her want to march right up to his desk and place herself possessively in his lap, which was ridiculous: Hermione Granger was a perfectly reasonable, logical witch. She could handle this. 

Two hours later the box was empty, and the jars were full of red, orange, yellow, and blue wings. 

“You are dismissed,” Draco said, “And don’t let me catch you down here again, or I’ll find something truly disgusting for you to do next. If you think rotten leeches are the worst possibility, have I got surprises for you.”

Teddy’s shoes squeaked against the stone as the boys scurried out into the corridor. 

As soon as the footfalls faded down the corridor, Draco was back in her personal space. 

“And as for you,” he purred, “I believe I have some unfinished business to take care of.” He looked at her through hooded eyes as he trailed his finger from her temple to her chin. 

Her eyes danced around the dungeon. It was as empty as her classroom had been at 6 am this morning. She could still taste the cherries, the flaky crumbs as they melted onto her tongue. Nobody had seen her indulge. There had been no witnesses. No consequences. 

And Draco was even more tempting than a cherry scone. 

She leaned forward and met his lips. He jumped in surprise, but in a moment had her wrapped in his arms. He devoured her greedily, hungrily. He was fire and passion and sinful pastries wrapped up in a white paper bag. She was so entangled in his arms that she barely registered the quiet  _ thud _ of something hard hitting the stone floor in the hallway. 

A high-pitched warbling giggle rang out through the room, piercing the silence and shattering the spell. Hermione gasped and pushed herself out of Draco’s embrace, but it was too late. She was about to discover exactly what consequences came from indulging in cherry scones. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, to my wonderful betas, Ethan, Bex, and Gallagher8.
> 
> Another big thank you to jw84, oldmoviewatcher, and to_anyone316 for your enthusiasm. I so enjoy reading your thoughts each week, and always look forward to what you have to say. :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated Tuesdays.

  
  


In the moment between the high-pitched laughter and the second it took to break away from Draco’s hold, a singular thought filled Hermione’s mind: so this is what comes from indulging in cherry scones. She knew she shouldn’t have given in. 

“Well, this is just too perfect. I suspected, of course I did. But to catch you in the act!” Lavender Brown’s eyes were brighter than Hermione had ever seen them. They seemed to sparkle with malicious glee, and the sight turned Hermione’s blood cold. Tap, tap, tap went Lavender’s wand against the side of a lilac briefcase. It sprung open into her hideous wardrobe of merchandise. 

Hermione could only stare, her mouth hanging open and her body frozen in shock. She’d tried so hard. She’d resisted for so long, and for exactly this reason. Now it was too late; she’d indulged and she’d gotten caught and her career was over. What would happen to Teddy, to Tomás, if she was sacked? She hadn’t had enough time to figure them out yet, to fix what was broken. Her stomach felt like it was full of stones. 

“There’s a rule, isn’t there? You’re not supposed to be doing this.” Lavender’s eyes gleamed triumphant. “I’m no Slytherin, but I know how to get what I want.”

A sneer pulled at Draco’s lips. His already-perfect posture somehow became straighter still. “And what is that? A pony?”

Lavender waved her hand at her traveling shop front. “I’m going to turn a profit in this business. I know I will. All I need is a bit of a push. If someone like, say, the famous war heroine Hermione Granger was seen wearing my products, I would have customers flocking to me like flies to nectar.”

Hermione snorted. Or perhaps like flies to something else. “So I’m assuming that if I agree to wear your products, you’ll agree to keep what you just saw to yourself?” 

A tiny flame of hope ignited in her chest. Perhaps all was not lost, at least not yet.

Lavender grinned. “You always were quick to figure things out.”

“Fine. I’ll make you a deal. You keep your mouth shut, and I will buy a dress from you. I’ll even wear it to school, on the final day before term ends. That should leave a lasting impression.” Hermione could hardly believe her luck. Of all the things Lavender could have demanded, all she wanted was product placement? Draco was the wizarding equivalent of a billionaire prince. Why not demand his gold if she was so desperate? 

But no way was Hermione going to point that out. She needed a new incentive to motivate her class into behaving, anyway. Something bigger than ties, and something she didn’t have to bribe Draco into. This would work perfectly. 

Lavender tapped her chin. “The end of term is around Christmas. May I interest you in some of my seasonal wear?”

Seasonal wear? Ew. The regular wear was awful enough already. Hermione glared at Malfoy over Lavender’s shoulder. He had his lips pressed together as if trying to hold back laughter. 

She was going to kill him. First, she was going to strangle Lavender with one of her own ties, and then she would kill Draco for laughing at her.

Half an hour later, she shoved two unspeakably awful sets of dress-robes into her beaded bag and marched out the door. 

  
  
  
  


There were not enough legal textbooks in Hogwarts’ extensive library to even begin to satisfy Hermione. Still, the ones they’d had available made a pretty sizable stack on Draco’s coffee table the night after they’d been discovered by Little Miss Blackmail. Plenty of textbooks meant no time for temptation, which was exactly what Hermione needed.

If they’d gotten caught once, there was no reason it couldn’t happen again. Next time it might not be Lavender--next time it could be McGonagall. And so, as much as it pained her, kissing was off the table for the foreseeable future.

Hermione dug through her beaded bag, pulling out her notebook and a stack of papers. It wasn’t the most efficient thing, to scribble ideas into the margins of her lesson plans, but she’d had a busy week. Now she needed to sort everything out and organize her thoughts into bullet-pointed lists.

She opened a fresh composition book and divided the pages into three sections: Dr. Calamity, Lavender Brown, and Teddy & Tomás. 

She was about to begin her first list when a soft “meow” from across the room distracted her. Meowfoy had always been a serious cat, but he’d never looked so regal, so protective as he did standing guard over Furry’s cat chaise as she poked her nose through her book. Hermione shook her head. “Those two. Have you ever seen such a lovely pair?”

Draco grinned. “Nearly as lovely a pair as their owners.” 

“If only things were as simple for us as they are for them.” Hermione sighed and forced her focus back to the coffee table. At the top of the mess of papers sat a sheet of purple stationery. She might as well start there. “Take a look at this.” She unfolded the letter and waved it at Malfoy. 

His eyebrows furrowed, and his eyes ran over the page. After a moment, he rested the letter on the couch between them, his finger pointing to the first line. “You mentioned me? To George Weasley?”

Hermione frowned and squinted at the words.

_ Why, whatever do you mean, meddling in your affairs? I’m wounded. That Malfoy character, on the other hand... Why, I’d be happy to meddle in his.  _

“That’s the thing—I didn’t. I wish I’d made a copy of the letter I sent so I could show you.”

Draco’s hand flew to his chin. “I think that’s important: George aims to meddle not only in your affairs, but mine as well. But why?”

“Tomás had a letter from George, too. It mentioned something about an entrance fee.”

“An entrance fee? Would George stoop to bribery?”

“Yes.” Hermione’s response was automatic. If it got him what he wanted, George would have no moral qualms about offering an incentive. But what was it that he wanted? A younger audience to test his products on? “That would explain why the boys have been so relentless.”

She pressed her pen to the page.

_ Teddy & Tomás _

_ -Corresponding with George Weasley _

_ -George sending WWW products—for testing purposes? _

_ -entrance fee _

_ -George meddling in Mafoy’s affairs _

“That’s all for now. Unless you know something?” Hermione looked hopefully across the couch to Malfoy.

He shrugged. “Let’s move on to Lavender. She’s the more pressing issue.”

Hermione stuck the letter to the opposite page with a temporary sticking charm and set her notebook aside. Moving on meant diving into that glorious stack of books, and Hermione Granger never complained about diving into books. But two hours later, they were no closer to finding a solution. 

“Look at this: while blackmail is punishable under Wizarding law, many clients shy away from legal recourse as it would make public the very thing they are wishing to hide.” Hermione groaned. “It’s true, you know. We could press charges, but it would only make things worse. We’ll be sacked for sure.”

Draco hummed. “Quite the obstacle, isn’t it?”

“I really do like my job.” Hermione plunked the book on the coffee table, hard enough to make Meowfoy narrow his eyes at her over Furry’s head. “I know there are other things I could do to make a difference in the world, but—”

“—but you’ve already put so much of your heart into this one. I know. It’s your everything.”

“My… everything.” Hermione swallowed. At the beginning of the year that might have been true. Now, she wasn’t so sure. It was her first priority, sure, but the hope of something new crowded against it. Something that smelled of cedarwood and tasted of cherry scones. “I guess we’ll have to go along with it for now. But let’s keep searching; we’re bound to find something. Some kind of loophole.”

“That’s my girl.”

“What about Dr. Calamity? Found anything about that?” Hermione asked.

“We could sue her, but I have a feeling the court would have a difficult time assigning a monetary value to the trouble her actions have caused. Can you imagine? The defense would submit the kittens as evidence, and the jury would swoon. They’d end up awarding you negative galleons in damages.”

Hermione groaned. “There has to be something we can do.”

“Oh, don’t you worry. I’m working on it.” Draco winked at her. “Actually, this kind of research is right up my alley.”

“Really?” Hermione raised her eyebrows. After all the time he’d spent in court after the war, she would have thought he’d want to stay far, far away. Not that she was going to bring that up; she doubted he’d appreciate the reminder.

But Draco nodded. “I was studying for the bar exam, you know, before McGonagall offered me the position at Hogwarts.”

It made sense, now that she thought about it. Draco was so logical, so methodological and outspoken. She could see him as a lawyer. He would look at home in a courtroom, in his polished shoes and freshly pressed shirt. “But why accept a teaching position if your passion is law?”

Draco’s responding smile was a little too thin, and a little too sad. “It was Squib’s dream, anyway. I doubt anyone would want to be represented by a former death eater.”

And there it was. Hermione fiddled with the pages of her book, trying to think of what she could say—of what he needed to hear. After a moment, she looked him straight in the eye. “You’re more than your past. I have a feeling that most of the world doesn’t think about that when they look at you. Not anymore.” 

“Oh, I don’t know. I think that people are unforgiving, and they have long memories.” Draco’s eyes surveyed Hermione’s as if trying to read her thoughts. “Yourself included. Don’t tell me you wouldn't have hesitated to court me if I didn’t have such a sordid history.”

Hermione stared at her feet, tucked beneath her legs on the couch. He wasn’t wrong. His history had colored her perception of him from the very first day he’d set foot in her classroom. Hadn’t she disbelieved the sincerity of his words, despite the earnest glint in his eye? Hadn’t she dismissed his advances as shallow flirtation? Didn’t she, even now, hesitate to release the last pieces of her heart out of fear, and based on what?

Not his death eater roots. No, that would be too easy, too righteous. Instead, she feared his upbringing. His pure-bloodedness. And she feared it based on circumstantial evidence that he preferred witches of similar bloodlines. 

“That’s what I thought.” Draco’s voice was self-deprecating, disappointed, even. 

Even hours later, as Hermione stared through the dim starlight at her bedroom ceiling, his words haunted her. If she judged him based on his background, did that make her a hypocrite? Was she any better than the prejudiced purebloods she’d spent the last five years seeking to correct? 

  
  
  
  


Hermione had thought Lavender was pleased with their blackmail arrangement. The sight of Draco Malfoy, standing before his potions students, made her suspect otherwise. 

She counted the days since Lavender had caught them snogging in the dungeons. Two? Had it been three? 

That was a pretty short turn-around for her to up the ante. Though she had been surprised that Lavender hadn’t roped Draco into a hush-money agreement as soon as she’d caught them, as he was the one with the most coin to spare.

She’d just thought he had a bit more self-respect than this. 

For there, tucked under the collar of his Oxford, dangled a hot pink tie decorated with what Hermione could only assume were supposed to be boggarts. They flashed between images of goblins, vampires, dragons, manticores, and countless other fearsome creatures like colorful strobe lights. Hermione blinked away and tried to focus on the top of Draco’s cornsilk hair; the last thing she needed was a headache.

He bent over a cauldron and wafted its purple steam towards his nose. The tip of his tie leaned dangerously close to the bubbling liquid inside. “Very nice, Goondock. If you chop the arrowroot more consistently, the steam will take on the ideal lilac hue.” 

She wondered if he had seen her yet. His shoulders were so broad, so straight. She probably shouldn’t interrupt him during class, but she was already here, and it was such a long walk from her upstairs classroom. 

Draco moved over to the next set of students. “Don’t forget to skin the frog legs, Miss Jones. Nobody wants a run-in with accidental Giggling Gas.”

The boy Draco had called “Goondock” snorted. Hermione scratched her chin. She didn’t recognize him, and she remembered every first-year she had taught for the last five years. He must be a transfer, from Drumstrang or some other traditional school. If he’d been in her class, he certainly would have learned better manners.

“Any real witch wouldn’t need to be told that,” said Goondock. “Sure wish Hogwarts would send the Muggle-borns home so they’d stop slowing everyone down.”

Draco whipped around. “There will be none of that talk in my classroom. Twenty points from Slytherin.”

Goondock rolled his eyes and stirred his potion. “You know it’s true. She’s been holding back our coursework all year.”

“Your potion is far from perfect. And unless you’d like to receive a “T” grade on it, I suggest you shut your ugly mouth.”

Hermione sighed. She seriously doubted that Draco had read Classroom Management for Dummies. But last time she had commented on his teaching methods, she’d started a fight. Between Lavender and Dr.Calamity, she had quite enough conflict in her life already. She glanced at her watch. If she wanted to talk to him before her next class, she’d better speak up. 

“Excuse me, Professor Malfoy.”

Draco’s head whipped towards her, then back to his students. “Keep working. If I hear a single peep out of any of you, I won’t hesitate to assign detention.”

He stalked out the door and pulled it shut behind him. As soon as they were alone, the sharp edge behind his features melted away into an easy smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Professor Granger?”

“I’m sorry to disrupt you. I should have just owled—it’s not even that urgent.”

“What, and deny me the opportunity to break another school rule?” He waggled his eyebrows. 

Hermione crossed her arms. The hallway might be empty, but you never knew who was waiting around the corner. For all her efforts to distance herself from him, she wasn’t eager to be caught over stupid innuendos. “Are you going to make me take points from Slytherin? It looks like they’ve already lost enough in the past five minutes.”

“Oh no, Miss Granger; I think you’ll be most pleased with my performance. Slytherin only stands to gain.”

She shivered and took a step backward. It was incredible how easily he affected her, even when she was irritated with him for risking exposure. “Muggle Studies. The, um… the lectures. I haven’t had you all year.”

He smirked down at her. “We should fix that immediately.”

“You know what I meant.”

He straightened his back and his garish boggart-print tie. “I’ll be happy to lecture for you, though I will have to have a good look at your schedule, so I can work around my own. But shall we tentatively plan for next week?”

“That will be lovely.” She turned to leave, but after a few steps, she paused and turned back. “Oh, and Draco?”

His smile was smoldering.

“Nice tie.” 

He winked. “Anything for you.”

  
  
  
  


By Friday night, Hermione had fallen into a routine. As soon as she rushed through the door of her flat, she’d change out of her cumbersome work uniform into her pajamas. Then she'd grab Meowfoy and scoot down to apartment B9 for some “research” and “maternity visitation.”

But tonight as she stood in front of the door, her hand poised to knock, she paused. Voices murmured behind the door. Draco’s she recognized, but the other was feminine. Even muffled through the walls, it sounded confident and poised. It seemed lower than Astoria’s voice, though she hardly ever saw her these days, except at the annual gala. Perhaps Pansy?

Meowfoy, probably annoyed at being kept on the wrong side of Furry’s door, narrowed his eyes at Hermione. Then, much to her horror, he let out the lowest, longest meow she’d ever heard. The voices stopped, and a muffled thump of footsteps replaced them. Her eyes darted down the hallway towards her own flat.

If Draco had company, she shouldn’t interrupt. What if he was on a date? Oh, Merlin—they’d never had the talk about whether they were seeing each other exclusively. Or seeing each other at all, really. Between their scattered kisses and mountains of research, they hadn’t had time.

She was about to tuck her tail and run when the door opened. 

“Hermione?” 

He was dressed in traditional wizarding robes, complete with a pair of silver cufflinks and dragon-skin boots. At 8:00 on a Friday night. She bit her lip and fingered the waistband of her Lulawitch pajama leggings—her favorite ones with the cats. “I’m so sorry, Draco. I shouldn’t have presumed...” 

Just because she kept coming over didn’t make Draco obligated to accommodate her. Her eyes fell to an image of a mouse fleeing a snapping dragon on the hallway carpet. “I’ll leave you to your company.” 

The inviting smell of earl grey tea drifted into the hall. “Don’t be ridiculous. Furry’s been staring at the door since the moment I got home. She’ll claw me in my sleep if I turn you away.”

“Are you sure? I’m really not dressed for—”

“Oh, don’t worry. It’s only my mother.”

Only his mother. Her eyes widened. It was only his mother. Excluding galas, she hadn’t been in the same room as his mother since—well, since she’d testified at Draco’s trial. The last thing she wanted to do was sit down for tea in her cat pajamas with Narcissa Malfoy. 

Draco put his hand on Hermione’s lower back and guided her inside. What was it that you were supposed to do when faced with intimidating socialites? Look them in the eye, play dead, or run in the other direction? Perhaps cast the Riddikulus charm?

She settled on a sort of grimace. As soon as she crossed the threshold, Meowfoy leaped from her arms and sprinted off to sniff at his girlfriend’s nose. 

Narcissa was wearing crystal blue robes that highlighted her sharp eyes. They seemed to pierce right through Hermione’s skin and straight to her bones. 

“Do come and join us. We were just enjoying an evening tea.” Her voice floated through the air as if they were sitting in a breezy rose garden instead of a flat that resembled an ad for pet furniture. 

Hermione scooted her legs all the way under the table so that every cat was hidden from view.

“Draco tells me that you two are expecting.” Narcissa arched a perfectly-shaped eyebrow over her teacup.

Hermione felt her jaw drop. “N-n-no, not—not us. The cats. The cats are expecting. Obviously not me.”

Draco muffled a snicker behind his hand, and Hermione felt her face growing redder. Of course Narcissa had meant the cats. She doubted they’d be having a peaceful tea if his mother had recently discovered that her first grandchild would be a half-blood.

Five minutes in, and she was already an awkward disaster. The sofa seemed to tease her, with the smooth spot on the right-hand side and the fluffy blanket resting over the back. The sofa would never judge her cat leggings, or raise its eyebrows if she forgot to extend her pinky. What she wouldn’t give to ignore this entire situation and sink into it with a Kneazle full of kicking kittens and the latest issue of Muggle and Wizard Magazine. 

Narcissa reached for the vintage teapot. “How do you take your tea, my dear?”

Hermione tore her eyes away from the couch. “Two sugars, please.”

Even out of her home, Naricassa effortlessly held command of the room, pouring the tea and adding the sugar like the Queen of Poise she was. Hermione did her best not to shrink under the table. 

Narcissa’s teacup made a soft clink as she set it on her saucer. “Do you have a birth plan? Draco tells me that he’s had a few house-calls from a specialist. Should be about three weeks, now, before Fur-”

“That’s right, Mother—Furry has about three weeks to go.” 

Narcissa’s eyes widened. 

“Well, I suppose we’ll have to set up a nest for her, won’t we?” Hermione said. “All the literature suggests Kneazles prefer a soft, quiet spot.”

Narcissa formed a slow, sly smile over the rim of her teacup. “Fascinating, isn’t it, that your Kneazles chose each other? You know what they say about familiars resembling their owners.”

Hermione blinked. Draco had mentioned that his mother wasn’t opposed to him dating muggle-borns. She hadn’t believed him, but now she wasn’t so sure. In fact, Hermione was beginning to think that she’d been almost one-hundred percent wrong about every single person in her life, Narcissa included. 

Draco grinned. “They do seem rather well-suited. Honestly, I’m not sure Hermione and I will ever be able to live farther than a hallway away from each other again. A soul-bound isn’t the sort of thing Kneazles get over.”

“Well, you never were too fond of the Manor, anyway.” Narcissa took a dainty sip of her tea, her pinky poised high in the air. “Much too far away from Hogwarts for your liking.” Her eyes flickered to Hermione.

“How are things at the manor, Mother? House-elves treating you right?” Draco shot a pointed glare at his mother, almost as if he was warning her of some unspoken boundary.

“That reminds me, darling,” said Narcissa. “Next week is that fundraiser gala for the Hogwarts Tuition Assistance foundation. I do hope you’ve cleared your evening schedule to attend.”

Draco pulled at the collar of his robes as if they had become unbearably itchy. “Oh, um, that gala. I don’t have any conflicts, no.”

Hermione frowned—he was so cagey all of a sudden. He must already have a date. A beautiful, Pure-blood date who definitely knew the proper way to stir cream into her tea and wouldn’t be caught dead in cat leggings.

“Excellent,” Narcissa said. “Don’t put off writing your speech too long. I know how it stresses you. Have you chosen your wardrobe?”

Clearly, Draco didn’t want to discuss his date any more than Hermione wanted to hear about it. He shot up from his chair. “My goodness, look at the time! I’ve been terribly selfish keeping you up, when I know you have such an early morning tomorrow.”

“Draco, it’s 8:25.”

He reached down and lifted his mother’s hand from the table. “Is it, really? Boppy!” 

With a loud crack, a bright-eyed house elf in a crisp white uniform popped into the room. “Master calls for Boppy?”

“Yes, good evening, Boppy. I’m afraid I’ve kept my mother out much too late—how careless of me. Would you please escort her home?”

Boppy beamed with joy. “Of course, sir. Boppy be taking good care of his mistress.”

“Thank you, Boppy.”

Narcissa opened her mouth as if to protest but snapped it shut just as quickly. “Goodnight, Draco. Miss Granger.” 

And with a loud crack, Narcissa and Boppy were gone.

Hermione gave her head a quick shake. Draco had dismissed his mother so suddenly. If she hadn’t been listening to the whole conversation, she might have thought Narcissa had just announced she’d become a Luluwitch consultant.

He was hiding something. After everything they’d gone through together, all the mysteries they’d sorted through right here in this room, he still was keeping secrets. Maybe even deceiving her, like that wretched Dr. Calamity.

Hermione rose from her chair. “I’d better be going, too.” She shot Draco a glance. “I’ve been keeping you every evening with my research projects. You must be behind on your grading.” 

Hermione made her way over to the leather couch where her cat was entwined with his. Furry’s belly was large enough now that she had a hard time squeezing through the small hole in the golden snitch hideaway. 

Meowfoy shot her an angry look as she crept her hand towards him. 

“If you’d like to keep all your fingers, I’d advise against that.”

“Well, what do you suggest, then? You're obviously in a hurry to get rid of your guests, so—”

His hands wrapped around her waist. “I think you misunderstand. I only wished to get rid of my mother, not you. You are welcome to stay as long as you like.”

Right. His mother. He had to chase her off before she could discuss exactly which Pureblood princess he’d be escorting to the gala next week. Hermione scowled. “I’ve had quite enough, thanks.”

“Don’t go running out on me now—we still need to discuss my lecture in your Muggle Studies class next week.”

“You come, you give your usual speech, you leave. What’s to discuss?”

Draco threw his hands heavenward. “I don’t understand. I know tea with my mother was awkward. I understand that. But she’s gone now, and you have nothing to worry about. Why are you running off on me?”

“Perfectly fine? Sure, it was perfectly fine. Right up until the moment I was reminded of why I planned to stay away from you in the first place.”

“This is about the gala. Is this about the gala? Because I’m happy to—”

“No, Draco Malfoy, this is not about the gala. This is about the high-society bint you’re planning on taking to the gala. Look, I get it. I just—I can’t sit here and pretend to be ok with it.” 

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose for a full five seconds before he spoke, his voice soft. “I’m not asking you to be ok with it.”

Hermione pressed her eyes shut in an attempt to hold back the tears that threatened to gather there. Of course he couldn’t carry on with her while he pursued a traditional courtship. This was his way of saying goodbye. “Come on, Meowy. It’s time to go home.”

She turned her back on Draco and bent to pry her Kneazle from his girlfriend. He hissed at her.

“Oh, forget it. You can stay here, then.” Hermione shook her hands violently and stomped towards the front door, only to be stopped short by Draco’s hand on her arm.

“Hermione. I’m not asking you to be ok with it, because I’m not interested in taking anyone else to the gala. I don’t have a date lined up. For a very long time, the only witch I’ve been interested in going anywhere with has been you.”

Hermione blinked, and those stubborn tears started to fall. She must have stood silent for minutes, reeling from his confession, before she finally found her voice. “But I’m all wrong for you.”

“If that’s the case, then why do I see your wild curls, your knowing little smirk every time I close my eyes? Why does my mind wander to find you when it should be focused on grading my endless stacks of student essays?” He stepped forward, and his hands wrapped around the small of her back. “If that’s the case, then why do you fit so perfectly in my arms?” 

So many faces flashed before her eyes--Headmistress McGonagall, Narcissa Malfoy, Lavender Brown, Astoria Greengrass. She buried her face in the shoulder of his dress robes. Her tears were going to leave a wet spot there. “In your arms, yes. In your life, no. What’s the point of all this, if I don’t get to keep you?”

Without a backward glance, she stumbled away from his warmth and out the front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear lovely readers, thank you so much for your response on the last chapter. Hearing from you and seeing your follows and favs always puts a smile on my face. :)


	12. Chapter 12

Hermione didn’t open her door that weekend. She didn’t open it when Draco’s now-familiar  _ tap-tap-tap _ filled her flat every five minutes for hours after she bolted from his tea table on Friday night. She didn’t open her door when she ran out of milk and had to resort to pouring heavy cream into her Sunday-morning cereal. She didn't even open it for the loud, booming knock that she wasn’t sure who was responsible for.

She couldn’t face Draco, explain to him what she was thinking, because she didn’t understand it herself.

Her heart ached for him. She saw him in every flick of her Kneazle’s tail, or at least she would if her Kneazle were here instead of cozied up with his girlfriend. 

She craved his touch every moment they were apart, and yet she couldn’t accept it when they were together. 

What she really was, she was beginning to realize, was a silly, irrational mess. 

But he wanted her. Or at least he had, before she’d rejected him. Again. 

Maybe that was the entire problem. Because when he’d held her last night, and spoken those words to her, it had finally hit her: she loved him. And there was no coming back from that.

When Monday morning came, Hermione snuck out the fire escape door and apparated into Hogsmeade from its wobbly metal platform. Better to not risk any drama. The last thing she needed was to go into class already agitated.

It ended up being a good call.

From the moment she walked into the room, she could tell it was going to be one of those days. Teddy and Tomás sat huddled in the back corner of the room, wisps of purple smoke smoldering around them like a dust devil. Tomás slipped his wand under his desk and flashed Hermione a confident grin. “Hello, Professor Granger.” 

Hermione crossed her arms. “Don’t test me today. I’m in no mood for it.”

“What’s the matter? Got into a fight with Professor Malfoy again?” Tomás shot Teddy a glance, the kind that’s loaded with unspoken words and only decipherable by a best friend.

“I certainly did not—excuse me, but what business is it of yours what happens in my personal life?”

Tomás’ grin became even broader. “Oh, so he’s in your ‘personal life’ now?” 

Tomás reached his hand under the desk and gave Teddy a not-so-surreptitious high-five. 

“Five points from Gryffindor for being entirely too nosey.”

The light in Teddy’s eyes faltered, but he straightened his back and shot a forced wink at his best friend. Hermione scowled. Some things just weren’t worth the fight, and this was one of them. Deducting even more points would make her seem defensive. Instead, she turned to the chalkboard and drew up several T-charts. One for Spain. One for Britain. She would also discuss Australian, Brazilian, and American winter traditions and how they differed between the Muggle and wizarding communities. 

As the chalk screeched angrily over the board, her class became noisier and noisier behind her back. That was ok, she could tune them out for now. Let them get all their chatter out of the way, then they’d be ready to participate in the lesson. 

After ten minutes of soothing chart-making, Hermione stepped back to admire her pristine handwriting and ruler-straight lines. With a quick nod to herself, she turned around to face her students.

What she saw undid all of her efforts to soothe her inner stress.

The desks were arranged into a large circle in the middle of the room, laid on their sides to act as a sort of wall—or perhaps a shield—from the living, moving ball of fire that they contained.

Standing atop his own desk was Tomás, a look of exhilarated concentration on his face and his wand drawing tiny circles in the air. 

Beside him, Teddy held his wand aloft, a stream of cool blue light falling from it like smoke and forming a barrier against the wall of desks. 

Hermione stared. The fireball roamed the circle with cat-like precision, like a tiger prowling through brush and shadows.

“Teddy! Tomás! What in Merlin’s name are you doing?”

Teddy startled at the sound of Hermione’s voice, and the blue smoke disappeared. Tomás looked at Hermione, then back at his conjured fire beast and the absent blue smoke. The fireball shifted to the left and squeezed between Susan and Teddy. It smashed into one of the desks, erupting it into yellow flames. 

Hermione’s eyes darted from the burning desk to the gap-mouthed students, frozen in shock and standing around like idiots.

“Out! Out! Everybody into the hall,” Hermione shouted.

To their credit, they didn’t need to be told twice. Susan was the first out the door, and was nearly trampled over by the mob of students that followed behind. All except the responsible parties, Teddy and Tomás, who appeared to be sticking around to fix the mess they’d made.

Hermione whipped her wand from her pocket. What was the counter-spell for fire monstrosities? She doubted an  _ Aguamenti  _ would suffice. No, this was a job for—

“Tomás!” Hermione called, but he was already on it. His brow furrowed into a look of complete concentration. From his lips came a song, low and soothing, that swayed to the dance of his wand. As his tune dropped lower, the fire beast became smaller and smaller until the last flame disappeared with a fizzle.

It was an impressive display of magic, but Hermione barely noticed. She was too busy extinguishing the desk fire and fanning the smoke away from her face with her hands. Well. It was a good thing Draco wasn’t scheduled to give his yearly lecture in her classroom until Thursday. Hopefully the smoke smell—and her shame—would fade a bit by then.

Tomás didn’t even look repentant; instead, he looked smug. Hermione shot him a glare. “I’ll deal with you later. Stay after class.” 

“We’re still having class?” Teddy said, his voice full of false bravado.

Hermione didn’t turn around to acknowledge Teddy’s comment; no point in giving him the satisfaction. Without missing a step, she went straight out the door into the hall. Tina Bellvue’s forearm was scorched charcoal gray, and James Doxie leaned against the cold stone of the castle hallway, one hand clutched to his chest and his breathing heavy. Hermione sighed.

“Doxie, Bellevue, to the hospital wing straight away.” Her eyes darted around to double-check the remaining children. Despite their wide eyes, they appeared more or less intact. “Anyone else?”

Sixteen students shook their heads.

“Then find your seats. There’s no reason to let this incident throw us off of our lesson schedule.” 

Tomás shot Hermione a sheepish grin, but held his head high as he righted his desk and sat in it. With another sigh, Hermione waved her wand and rearranged the rest of the desks into straight rows. 

Teddy ducked his head and trudged to his seat. If it weren’t for the blue hair, he would have looked exactly like his father had when he’d been moping about his self-imposed inability to pursue a relationship with Tonks.

He was still hunched over when class was dismissed forty minutes later. 

Hermione bit her lip. Tomás had been the instigator behind this disaster, and she would have to figure out an appropriate punishment. But right then, it seemed like Teddy needed her most.

“Tomás, you are dismissed. Meet me tomorrow morning thirty minutes before class to discuss your punishment.”

Tomás must have finally grasped the severity of the situation, for he gave a short nod, his eyes downcast, before turning and quietly exiting the room.

Hermine reached into her secret stash in the bottom drawer of her desk. This was an occasion that called for chocolate.

She stepped away from her intimidating teacher’s desk and settled into the one next to Teddy, offering him a square of chocolate. 

“That’s how we met, your father and I,” she said.

Teddy set the square on the desk in front of him. “What, he made you stay after class because you set his classroom on fire? I find that hard to believe.”

“No. With chocolate.”

Teddy’s head lifted, and Hermione saw a sparkle in his eye for the first time since all week.

“It was on the Hogwarts’ train. There was a dementor attack, and your dad was in our compartment. He was always calm, collected, even in a crisis. We were all so scared, and he just reached into his briefcase and told us to eat some chocolate. Said we’d feel better if we did.”

“Did it work?”

“Chocolate always works. You should give it a try.”

Teddy pinched the square between his fingers and lifted it to his mouth. As he chewed, Hermione continued.

“You know, for the longest time, I couldn’t figure it out. I thought maybe you just had too much of Tonks in you, but then I thought that can’t be right. I know when people talk about your mother, they love to remember how mischievous she was. But the truth is, she was a Hufflepuff. You can bet she wasn’t setting off dungbombs in class. In her common room, maybe…”

Teddy’s eyebrows raised. “George said Tonks got into all kinds of trouble at school. He said I’d be honoring her memory by helping him; that she would have liked to see me following in her footsteps.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that she would have gotten a kick out of you. But your behavior isn’t very Tonks—it’s straight Fred and George. I think George wants to give his twin an afterlife chuckle. And don’t even get me started on what Remus would think…”

“My dad would have been mad?”

“He would have been furious. He must be howling in his grave.” Hermione chuckled. “But it’s not too late, you know. You can turn it around.”

“I can’t let Tomás down. I promised him.” Teddy looked at the floor. “Besides, being a prankster is who I’ve always been here. If I just stopped, nobody would like me anymore.” 

“If they don’t, they were never a good friend.”

“But my pranks are what made Tomás want to be my friend in the first place. He’s a thousand times cooler than I am. Without George, I’m boring.”

“Boring? You? The only kid at school that can turn his hair into a rainbow strobe light?” 

Teddy grinned. “Yeah, I guess that’s pretty cool.”

“Besides, extra-curricular activities are about to get a lot more interesting. I have a big announcement to make in class tomorrow, and I have a feeling that you and your friend are going to be very pleased.”

Teddy’s eyes brightened, and Hermione smiled. She would be willing to bet five pairs—no, maybe only four pairs—of Lulawitch pants that Teddy’s behavior was about to improve.

  
  
  
  


_ Teddy Lupin _

_ -acting out in an attempt to connect with his mother _

_ -afraid of losing Tomás’ friendship _

_ -in cahoots with George _

_ -still feels like he’s not telling me something _

Hermione’s red pen moved sluggishly over her newest attempt to understand her student. She frowned. Chart-making was one of her favorite things. But tonight, it held no joy. 

Because tonight, Hermione’s lap was lonely. Hermione’s couch was not nearly as comfortable as Draco’s, and it lacked a certain fluffy throw blanket she’d grown rather attached to. 

Not to mention the guilt that clawed at her gut. 

Unfortunately, there was no easy solution. She loved Draco, and he wanted her. But they couldn’t be together, even behind closed doors. It was too risky.

Still, over the last few months she’d grown too attached to their friendship to abandon it, even if that meant enduring the exquisite torture of being in his presence. Not that being alone in her flat was much better. She stared at the walls and tapped the end of the pen on her desk, clicking it open, clicking it closed. Open, closed. 

Draco was alone in his flat, too—well, minus the cats. He must be feeling hurt and confused. Three days was much too long for anyone to feel hurt and confused.

With a final nod of her head, she shoved her law textbooks and composition book into her beaded bag. It was time to woman up and work things out. 

Before she could talk herself out of it, she sprinted down the hallway and stood panting at the door to apartment B9. But then, her pounding heart came to a sudden stop.

Muffled voices pitched and lulled on the other side of that door. One of them was feminine, and definitely not Draco’s mother. 

Hermione swallowed. She’d imagined him alone; she hadn’t even begun to consider the possibility that he wasn’t. Obviously she couldn’t expect him to keep trying forever. She’d said no, and he’d moved on. It was what needed to happen. But had it really needed to happen this quickly?

Her hand twitched against her textbook-print leggings. Should she knock anyway, at least to march in and retrieve her cat? The voices on the other side sounded heated, as if speaking passionately.

No. She couldn’t interrupt. She couldn’t bear to see any of it, but she wasn’t going to just leave, either. The first blank page in her composition book made a satisfying rip as she yanked it out, leaving it with jagged edges.

She’d made herself come here, and the least she could do for both of them was to leave a note.

_ Draco— _

_ I came to apologize, but I can hear that you’re already entertaining another witch. It’s ok. I get it.  _

_ I hope Meowy is well. I miss him.  _

_ I’m sorry about everything. I miss you, too. I hope we can still be friends. _

_ —Hermione _

She stuck the note to his door with a temporary sticking charm. He’d be sure to see it there. With a final glance at his flat, she slung her bag back over her shoulder and trudged back to her apartment, empty-handed and empty-hearted.

  
  


Hermione could smell the almonds all the way down the long stone corridor on Wednesday morning. Almonds and poppyseed. She inhaled deeply and pushed through her classroom door to the other side. Sure enough, there on her desk sat a white paper bag. 

She wasn’t sure what time Draco had gotten up that morning to not only beat her to Hogwarts, but also to stop by  _ The Sword in the Scone  _ first. She also wasn’t sure what it meant.

A poppyseed muffin was no cherry scone. 

Stuck to the outside of the bag, where it couldn’t be missed, was a folded piece of parchment. Hermione ignored it and pulled out the muffin. Warm, familiar morsels melted in her mouth. Pinch by pinch, crumb by crumb, she labored over that pastry. When it was gone, she’d have nothing left to do but read the note, and the thought terrified her. 

When the last poppy seed had disappeared, she pinched the parchment between her fingers and slipped it from the bag.

_ Dear Hermione, _

_ I’m sorry I missed you last night. Weeknight evenings aren’t the same without you, and I wish you would come back. _

_ Last night I had an… interesting visitor. I regret to warn you that I will not be able to attend the gala alone this Friday. It seems that I have no choice but to bring along a date. _

_ It’s not what you think. It really, really isn’t. But I can’t tell you about it in a note—it needs to be in person. Can I talk to you tomorrow? Perhaps before my visit to your classroom?  _

_ Yours always, _

_ Draco _

The paper shook in Hermione’s hand. What did he mean, he had no choice but to bring along a date? Even if his mother had pressured him, surely he could have said no if he really wanted to. He probably just didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

Hermione sighed. If Draco had finally had enough of her mixed signals, she should do her best to let him move on. He deserved some space. He deserved to be happy. 

She crumpled the bag and the note into a tight ball and tossed it into her trash bin. 

She’d started something last night, and now it was time to finish it. Her composition book was still missing a chart.

_ Tomás Fuego _

_ -pyromaniac _

_ -infuriatingly confident _

_ -Father lives in Spain, (Muggle) mother lives in America _

_ -possibly bored? _

It was incomplete, but that was ok for now. In less than ten minutes, he was due to appear for their pre-class meeting to discuss his behavior. With any luck, she’d have more to add at the end of the day.

Tomás waltzed into the Muggle Studies classroom ten minutes late. He had his hands shoved into his pockets and an unapologetic grin on his face.

“Hello, Mr. Fuego. Have a seat.”

Tomás pulled a chair out from one of the desks, flipped it around, and sat in it backward with his arms against the backrest. The crimson stick of a blood lollipop poked out of his mouth. Hermione pursed her lips. “Do you know why you’re here?”

Tomás grinned. “A really impressive display of pyrotechnics?”

“What you did was dangerous.” Hermione spoke slowly, lacing every word with gravity. “Two of your classmates were injured.”

Tomás looked at the ground in a rare show of humility, but then the fire returned to his mismatched eyes. “It never would have happened if you hadn’t surprised Teddy. You spooked him and he dropped his shield.”

“Tomás, it never would have happened if you hadn’t been practicing highly dangerous and inappropriate magic in my classroom in the first place. I don’t understand. You’re a smart kid. You know the rules. Why do you insist on breaking them?”

Tomás shrugged. He pulled the lollipop out of his mouth with a little  _ pop _ and twisted it in front of him, as if watching the light reflect from its square edges.

“Do you even understand the headache you’re causing me? Detention is not fun and games. Every time it’s held, I have to file a report. How do you think that makes me look, to have multiple detention reports filed every week?”

Tomás frowned. “So why don’t you just expel me?”

Hermione had to consciously press her teeth together to keep her jaw from dropping. “Tomás, do you want to be expelled?”

He shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

Well now she’d heard everything. Hermione threaded her fingers through her hair. When she was a student, expulsion had been her worst nightmare. Why would anybody hope for it? Tomás was a popular, well-liked kid. 

“I’m not going to have you expelled. But if you keep this behavior up, we’re going to have to figure out something that works. Because if we don’t, my job is on the line.”

This, more than anything else, seemed to affect Tomás. He pulled a cellophane wrapper from his pocket, twisted it around his lollipop, and stuck it into the pocket of his robes. “I don’t want you to lose your job. It’s just that George said—” 

Hermione straightened. There it was, right on the tip of his tongue. “George said what?” 

“Let me ask you something.” Tomás looked her straight in the eye. “Are you in love with Professor Malfoy?”

What. Was. That? Tomás Fuego, her 11 year-old student, did not just ask her that question. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, don’t be like that. Everyone can see the way you look at him.” He clasped his hand in front of his chin and batted his eyelashes, apparently in some awful imitation of Hermione. 

“I do no such thing.” 

“It’s ok, Professor Granger, we’re pretty sure he’s in love with you, too. At least George thinks so.”

“Is that so?”

Tomás nodded. 

“And what interest does George Weasley have for my relationship with Professor Malfoy?”

Tomás slammed his mouth shut and stared up at the ceiling, looking just about as suspicious as a first-year caught in the kitchens. 

Hermione extended her hand to rest reassuringly on his shoulder. “It’s ok,” she said. “You’re not going to get in any more trouble than you already are.”

“Nope.” The spikes in his hair quivered as he shook his head. “Sorry. If I tell, the deal’s off.”

“Tomás. What deal?”

“There’s this competition. My dad says I’m too young to enter it, but have you seen my fire spirits? I’m so ready. The trouble is, there’s a fee to get in, and since my Dad won’t pay it… well, George said he would. But we had to do something for him first.”

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “Test his store products on his target audience?”

“Well, there was that, and…” Tomás cocked his mouth into a sheepish grin.

Hermione shook her head.

The chitter of schoolgirl gossip trickled in from the hallway. They were running out of time. “I’m going to need you to show some repentance. You’re going to write letters—one to your father and one to your mother—explaining your behavior in the classroom and apologizing. I’ll need them on my desk by next week.”

She should have searched his eyes to see if the punishment had hit its mark, but she was too irritated.

Tomás settled into his seat, and Hermione back behind her desk. She closed her eyes and counted to ten, imagining herself in a library, surrounded by books with Draco Meowfoy purring on her lap. This was a good thing. Tomás had given her some clues—infuriating, aggravating clues. She surveyed the room through her eyelashes. Tomás sat hunched over his desk, probably trying to finish up his homework before class started.

He was distracted enough that she could work on her composition book. She slipped it out and flipped through the pages soundlessly until she got to his.

_ Tomás Fuego _

_ -pyromaniac _

_ -infuriatingly confident _

_ -Father lives in Spain, (Muggle) mother lives in America _

_ -possibly bored? _

She added:

_ -George is offering him money in exchange for testing products and… what? _

_ -must be clinically insane because HE WANTS TO BE EXPELLED _

_ -is exceptionally nosy about Professor Malfoy  _

When she looked back up from her work, the desks had filled.  _ Perfect.  _ Now she could implement her other behavior management plan. She snuck her book back into her bag and stood.

“Well class, it seems we need to have a new contest. A bigger, better contest.”

The students perked up in their seats as if pulled by twenty invisible puppet strings. Well, nineteen, since Tina was still in the hospital wing with her scorched arm.

Hermione reached into her beaded bag. The first dress was Muggle-inspired, printed with Father Christmas in various costumes from all around the world. The second was covered in images of christmas cookies that could only have been decorated by two-year-olds. She hung the dresses, one on each side of the blackboard, with sticking charms.

“I think we’ll give poor Professor Malfoy a break. This time, whichever team wins the most points will get to choose my dress for the final day of classes before the holiday break.” 

The classroom buzzed with excited whispers. Hermione turned to the blackboard and waved her wand, and the original team lists appeared.

“But that’s not all. I have one more surprise for you.”

The classroom went so quiet, you could have heard a fairy sneeze.

“It has come to my attention that some of you are thirsting for extracurricular opportunities. I have spoken to a real-world creator that most of you will probably recognize—George Weasley. He will be conducting a magical engineering club every Wednesday at 6:30 pm. Any individuals who are interested in attending—who also have been detention-free for the week—can report to the Quidditch Pitch tonight to join him.”

Tomás looked like Christmas had come early, which Hermione supposed, it kind of had. She grimaced at the dresses hanging next to the blackboard. 

“Wicked!” Tomás nudged Teddy with his elbow. “It’s gonna be so awesome. I bet George will let us do fire stuff!”

“Yes, you can talk all about how you’re going to burn each other to a crisp later. It’s time to focus on our lesson. ”

For the rest of the period, Hermione enjoyed a peaceful and attentive class. She wasn’t sure if it was the talks she’d had with Teddy and Tomás, the promise of her own public humiliation, or the idea of a fire-crafting club. But whatever it was, she prayed to Merlin it would keep working.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta credits to Ethan, Bex, and Gallagher8. All remaining errors are my own.
> 
> AN: Hello, lovely readers! I hope all of you are staying safe and happy during this uncertain time. Perhaps using the global suggested quarantine to catch up on your reading?
> 
> Thank you for choosing to spend some of it with me, and my story.


	13. Chapter 13

“Hermione Granger! It’s been a minute.” George’s steps had a suspicious sort of spring in them as he strode towards her across the Quidditch pitch. “It’s been what? Two Christmases since I’ve laid eyes on you?” 

The only thing more ridiculous than George’s pink fingerless gloves were his robes—just as violently purple as his stationary. Against the olive greens of the grass, shadowed by the falling light in the Quidditch pitch, they stood out like a construction worker’s safety vest.

“George.” Hermione pulled her cloak around her arms and stepped cautiously towards him. She’d never had a lot of trust in George Weasley, and least of all now. “I’m pleased to see you’ve honored your commitment.”

“Of course. Nobody’s more committed to the education of young wizards than yours truly.”

Hermione snorted, leaving a patch of white breath in the December air. “Then I suppose you’d be willing to turn out your pockets for me?”

“So distrustful.” George reached into his robes and pulled the lining of his pockets inside out. They were the same distasteful pink as his fingerless gloves, but blessedly empty, or so it seemed.

“Wonderful.” She turned to her flock of first-years, still huddled at the base of Ravenclaw’s spectator stands. “Well, come along and don’t be shy. George probably won’t bite.” 

Teddy took off at a run, arms outstretched, and Hermione couldn’t help but smile. Though technically not blood relatives, George had always called Teddy his nephew. What a pair they made. Teddy’s feet flew as fast as they could carry him until he collided with George in a flurry of black and purple robes. 

“Nice hair, Teds.” George flopped his hand onto Teddy’s locks, now curly and red, probably in celebration of George’s visit. 

“I wish Tomás could be here! Oh boy, I can’t wait until he gets to come. You should have seen what he did in class today…” Teddy glanced back at Hermione. Her face must have been fierce, for he blanched and scratched the back of his head. “Well, anyway. He got banned from Engineering Club this week.”

George’s responding laugh was hearty, ringing of late-night shenanigans and practical jokes. “I’ve heard you’re giving Professor Granger quite the run-around this year.”

Then, that cheesy troublemaker had the audacity to send a wink Hermione’s way. She rolled her eyes. “Yes, no thanks to you.”

“Why, whatever do you mean? I haven’t set a foot on Hogwarts’ grounds in years.”

“Apparently you don’t need to.” She pursed her lips. Despite the risk of George slipping contraband into Teddy’s pockets, bringing him here was an opportunity. An opportunity she intended to capitalize on.

Of the few things she knew for certain, George’s interference was at the top of her list. But to what end? What did George hope to accomplish? What was Teddy and Tomás’ secret mission?

If she could fill in the details, she’d be that much closer to a peaceful school year and job security. But in order to do that, she’d have to play along with his silly little games.

“Right. Come on students, don’t be shy. Step up and introduce yourselves,” said Hermione. 

Eight first-years, mostly admirers of Tomás Fuego, moved forward in a timid cluster. With a blinding grin, George stepped forward and asked their names. While they muddled through their introductions, Hermione conjured a circle of chairs right in the middle of the pitch. 

Through their owl correspondence, they’d decided that the first club meeting should be a getting-to-know you night, which was perfect. Laughter and games were George’s Firewhisky, and while his guard was down, she could trick him into revealing some vital information. There was just one thing missing—something to make everything cozy and reassuring. Hermione twirled her wand and a magical bonfire with warming blue flames appeared in the circle’s center. Now it was perfect.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough hobnobbing about! Time to get acquainted with your chairs,” said George. 

The students scurried, snagging spots around the fire and putting their hands up to soak up its warmth. George held his fingers to his chin and flicked his eyes over the last empty seat. Then, with a grin, he declared, “The first rule of Magical Engineering club is: Never use anything for its intended purpose.”

Everyone stared as George’s dragonhide boots stepped onto the seat of the chair. The blue light of the bonfire flickered in his eyes, as well as the open mouths of the children in the circle. 

“There. Much better. Now who likes games?”

It seemed the students were starstruck, or maybe they simply had never met anyone quite like George Weasley. Teddy’s was the lone hand that shot up, wiggling at the fingertips. 

“Perfect!” said George. “You can go first, then. I want to hear, in one word, how everyone is feeling tonight. I, for example, am feeling firecracker. Yes, I am feeling quite firecracker tonight.”

Two of the students shared nervous glances and timid giggles, but Teddy beamed. Hermione could guess why; this was a game Molly had invented after the war. Back when feelings sat around houses by the cauldron full, and everyone stepped around them and ignored their toxic fumes. Despite its silliness, or perhaps because of it, Molly’s game had helped everyone spill the cauldrons over and wave away their smog. 

Teddy had been too little then to appreciate it, but the game had never died.

Teddy stomped his right foot onto his chair, followed dramatically by his left. “Tonight I am feeling snowball.” He hugged his arms around his chest and gave a dramatic shiver, eliciting a giggle from his peers.

As each student declared that they were feeling excited or banana, nervous or alpaca, another pair of shoes hit the seat of another conjured chair.

When it was Hermione’s turn, she kept her feet on the grass and her bum in her chair, thank-you-very-much. “Tonight I am feeling niffler,” she said. And just like a niffler, she was going to sniff out all of George’s secrets.

“Wonderful!” George clapped his hands together. “Now onto the next. I have a very special game for you tonight. In fact, Professor Granger, I have a feeling you might appreciate it.”

Hermione’s head jerked towards George. What was he up to now? 

“It’s a Muggle game, you see, but with a… magical enhancement. Tell me, young tricksters—have you ever played “Never Have I Ever?”

Two hands shot up. From their owner’s chair stages, they towered over Hermione, making her feel tiny in comparison. 

But before George could call on anybody, Teddy was bouncing on his heels and spilling all the game’s secrets. “So one person says a thing, right, like—’never have I ever been to France.’ And if you’ve been to France, you have to stand up and run to find a new seat. If you haven’t been to France, you get to keep sitting.” 

George grinned. He stepped off his chair and vanished it with a wave of his wand. “Excellent, my little Teddy bear. And whoever is left standing has to say the next ‘never have I ever.’”

Hermione rubbed her chin with her first two fingers, her mind spinning in excited circles. This might be the opportunity she’d been hoping for. If she could figure out the right statement to make, perhaps she could get George to reveal his motivations, and maybe even the trick to making it all stop.

The real trick would be wrapping all of that up into a few yes-or-no questions.

“Perfect!” said George. “So in my version, we employ a little anti-cheating spell. Just to make sure everyone is being honest.”

Before Hermione could object, green and purple sparks shot out of his wand and floated above the bonfire in a small glowing orb. This could end badly for her.

“Oh look, I don’t have a chair. I guess that means I have to go first.” Despite his words, George did not look disappointed. He winked at Hermione and said, his voice full of mirth, “Never have I ever kissed Harry Potter.”

Hermione glared at him from her seat. Of course George was already using the game to satisfy his own twisted sense of curiosity. 

“Hey, that’s not fair!” Teddy sprung out of his seat, but he was the only one. 

“Aha!” George threw his head back with laughter and slipped into Teddy’s now-vacant seat. “I’d forgotten about your childhood.”

Teddy’s face glowed purple in the blue firelight, and Hermione shot him a sideways smile. No first year wanted to be publically reminded of the kisses they gave their parental figures—especially Teddy. It seemed he was so desperate to appear “cool” to his peers, he’d go to almost any lengths, including repeated detentions.

“Um… Never have I ever…” Teddy scuffed his shoe against the grass. “Never have I ever tried Firewhiskey.”

Hermione and George popped out of their seats, along with Eddie, golden-haired and smug. Hermione’s first, competitive instinct was to dive into the closest seat, but she curbed it. Asking the questions, especially under the anti-cheating spell, was her first priority. She rushed forward, then “tripped” over her own feet. “Whoops! Guess I was a little too eager.”

By the time she stumbled back to standing, all the seats were full. She smirked, and she imagined it looked a lot like Draco’s whenever he was about to say something he thought was particularly clever. “Never have I ever—”

But she never got to finish her sentence. 

“Oh-ho-ho! What do we have here? Eunice, right?” asked George.

Eunice sat in her seat, hands folded in her lap. But the really remarkable thing was her nose. Eunice normally had a button nose, cute and short. Now she had a foot-long nose that nearly touched the knee of her robes. 

“Looks like somebody’s snuck into her daddy’s liquor cabinet and doesn’t want to own up. Go on then, hop up. Hermione can take your spot.” 

“Oh. Excellent.” Hermione trooped over to Eunice’s vacated seat. Sure, she’d missed her chance and gotten grass stains on her robes for no reason, but there would be another chance. 

“Never have I ever cheated on a test,” said Eunice. 

Hermione held back a groan. If the kids kept putting out statements like that, she’d be glued to her spot the rest of the game. When the dust settled, it was George who was, suspiciously, left standing.

“Excellent!” George rubbed his hands together. “Never have I ever kissed a teacher.” 

“George! I cannot believe you!” Hermione stomped around the bonfire to stare him right in those cackling eyes. Nobody else moved, but their eyes were so wide it would have been comical if Hermione hadn’t been so irritated. 

George’s grin threatened to split his face in half. “Hey, all’s fair. If you objected to kissing questions you should have set that parameter from the start.” He strolled around the circle and dropped into her seat, which was, not surprisingly, the only empty one.

Hermione huffed a sigh. Well, at least she had another chance to ask a question. She knew George was bribing the kids, but she wasn’t one-hundred percent positive on what. She did have a few ideas, however. “Never have I ever bribed a student to spy on a teacher for me.”

“Guilty as charged,” George said. “Would you like my seat, then?”

Wait. Hermione glanced around the circle. This was why Ron had always beaten her at chess. She’d asked a question only George could move for, and now he was in the driver’s seat. 

George’s eyes sparkled dangerously. “Never have I ever fallen in love with—”

“Ok, game’s done!” Hermione stood and snatched her wand from her pocket. Before anything wild could happen, like her nose doing its best imitation of a carrot, she cancelled the anti-cheating charm. 

“What, didn’t like my questions?”

“This was a terrible idea. We are never doing this ever again.” This had been a complete and utter disaster. Hermione hoped that George’s mouth would hurt all day tomorrow from his excessive grinning. 

“Furthermore, I think that’s enough engineering club for one day,” she said. “Please return to your common rooms.”

The students’ whispers hung thick in the air as they turned to move back towards the castle. Teddy ran up and wrapped his arms around George one more time. “That. Was. Awesome! See you next week.”

Hermione shook her head. One thing was for sure—Engineering Club was never playing George’s icebreaker games again.

“George,” she hissed. “Can I have a word?”

“Why Granger, I thought you’d never ask!” 

Hermione crossed her arms. She waited until the whispers had faded, and the backs of the students were dark smudges against the backdrop of the looming castle. This was one interrogation that needed total privacy. 

“What is your game? And don’t even try to play dumb with me. I know you’re up to something.”

“Oh, dear Granger, you flatter me.” A gleam of blue firelight sparkled in his eye, and he crooked his finger, beckoning her closer.

Not just a meddler, but a pest as well—everything had to be a big show with George. If her job didn’t depend on discovering his secrets, she would have walked away. Instead, she stepped closer until his breath itched in her ear.

“I’m always up to something,” he whispered. 

“Obviously.” Hermione took a giant step away, then spun to face him, hands on her hips. “You’re bribing Teddy, and by extension Tomás, to spy on me in my classroom.” She’d been trying to keep her voice steady, but it was rising to a volume that anyone poking around the pitch could have overheard. “You’ve implied that you’re interested in meddling in Professor Malfoy’s business, and the lot of you are inappropriately nosy about my love life. Kissing Harry Potter? Why on earth do you care if I’ve kissed Harry Potter?” 

“Nicely done—very observant. Now put the pieces together.” 

Hermione felt the hairs on the top of her head rise. She was getting angry, dangerously angry, and she didn’t need to be fired for performing illegal magic on a Hogwarts’ guest teacher, no matter how much George deserved it. Besides, this was turning out to be a waste of time. He didn’t intend to tell her anything.

She’d doused the blue flames of her bonfire and gotten half-way across the pitch when George called after her. “I was only curious about the Potter thing. There were rumors, you know.”

“Right. Sure. That makes sense.” Hermione’s feet came to a stop on the grass, her hands tangling into her hair. “Are you just an agent of chaos, or what?”

“No, Hermione. Believe it or not, I really do care about you.” George’s voice was close behind her, as if he’d been chasing her across the field. 

Right. He cared enough to actively make her life a waking nightmare. She whirled around and shot him her best teacher glare. His face was dimly lit by the end of his wand, glowing in a way that reminded Hermione of Fire Fairies on summer nights at the Burrow.

“Heartbreaking that you don’t believe me.” George did not sound heartbroken—he sounded oddly smug. “You’ve just been so lonely since you and Ronnikins broke up. I always thought of you as the little sister I never had—”

Hermione snorted. “Um, Ginny. Ginny is your little sister.”

“Yes, and I have her. The point is, you were rotting away in your Hogsmeade flat, forever alone, until Draco came around. Besides, it was destiny. The Frenenanemones foretold it.”

“The—I’m sorry, the what?”

“Fren-en-anemones. Keep up, Granger.”

“What in the world is a fren-en-nen-omy?”

George shook his head. “No no no, it’s  _ Fren _ —as in friend— _ en— _ like enemy—and” George put his finger in the air, as if he’d just had a brilliant idea. “It’s better if I show you. Hold on.”

George reached into the pockets of his robes—the pockets that, upon his arrival to the Quidditch pitch, had been supposedly empty. His elbow disappeared, and Hermione raised her eyebrows. She hated to admit it, but an undetectable extension charm on robe pockets was genius. She should have thought of it herself. 

“Hang on,” he said, his sleeve now pulled all the way up to his shoulder. “Ah, here we go.” 

Hermione stared as he slowly pulled his arm out of his robes. A glass orb the size of a watermelon squeezed through the pocket hole like a giant soap bubble.

He held the orb up proudly. “You see? Frenenanemones.” 

Hermione’s eyes felt like they were about to bug out of her skull. Inside the globe, resting on a bed of glow-in-the-dark sand, sat a pair of coral pink anemones the size of soda cans. Their tentacles swished and swirled through the water in an effervescent dance. 

But that wasn’t the incredible thing. No, what had Hermione’s jaw dropping were the images burned into their sides. 

“That’s… but how? Why?” She straightened her back and glared at him through the wandlight. “Would you mind explaining to me, George Weasley, why you are carrying a pair of sea creatures with my and Draco Malfoy’s faces on them in the pocket of your robes?”

“I already told you, they’re Frenenanemones.” 

Hermione pressed her face into her palms. “George. Explain.”

“Imagine a world where the future of friendship can be foretold. Imagine a world where you, a beginner divinator, can simply order a set of Frenenanemones from Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes, feed them a bit of your subjects—”

“Excuse me, feed them what?”

“—and watch their future grow! If your subjects are destined to remain forever foes, the Frenenanemones turn black. Blue predicts an eventual friendship, and pink, of course…” George’s eyes sparkled.

Of course. It all made sense now—Teddy’s clumsy attempts to help Draco and Hermione work out their disagreement during detention that one night. Tomás’ obsession with Hermione’s love life. They wanted detention, because when they were in detention, they got to observe her and Draco together.

“Uh-huh. So you’ve been asking Teddy to keep an eye on Professor Malfoy and me, as we are your unknowing and unconsenting guinea pigs in a magical product test run?” Hermione felt her blood heating under her skin. If she’d been angry before, now she was livid. She balled her fists at her sides, gluing them to the fabric of her robes to keep herself from doing something that just might get her fired.

“Well… something like that.” George smirked. “But the important thing is, it worked, didn’t it?”

Hermione wasn’t sure what her face did, but it must have confirmed his suspicions, for he nodded his head.

“I thought so. Now, wouldn’t you love to be the face of the advertising campaign? You’re the perfect unlikely love story. If the Frenenanemones could predict this—”

“No.” Hermione spun towards the castle and started walking. 

“No? Not even for me?”

“No, and especially not for you. No. No, no, no, no, no. Not in a million years, or for a million galleons.”

“Aw, but consider the—”

Hermione had intended to ignore him until she got to the castle gates, but her thread of self-control broke. She whipped around and pointed her finger at his chest. “Even if it were true that Draco and I were together, which it absolutely is not, do you have any idea what that would cost me? I would lose my job! Did you not realize there was a reason you haven’t seen Draco and I out in public?”

“Well, I—”

“No, George Weasley. I don’t want to see our faces on those stupid anenmones anywhere, and if I do, I will tell your mother exactly what you’ve been up to. I have a Howler in the bottom of my desk drawer, and if—”

“Ok, ok, I’ll keep your secret.” George held his hands out in front of his chest in a gesture Hermione could only assume was supposed to be placating. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I really do want you to be happy.” 

Hermione sighed. The saddest part was, there wasn’t even really a secret to keep anymore. For a moment, she let herself imagine a world where she could simply walk next to the man she loved in public. She imagined slipping her arm through his at the upcoming gala, and leaning her head on his shoulder as they danced in the middle of the crowded room. Her anger melted into a throbbing longing that had nothing to do with the man in front of her. 

“It’s… it’s fine, George. But I can’t. Your anemones were wrong—Draco and I aren’t together. But even if that were to change…” She cast her eyes down at the grass. “Well, I can’t abandon my students.” 

“My Frenenemies work. You just haven’t given it enough time.” George gently squeezed his fish bowl back into the pocket of his robes. “Well, if you ever change your mind…”

“Don’t worry, George. You’ll be on my list of people to tell.”

* * *

  
  


On Thursday morning, Hermione stared at the contents of her closet with hostile contempt. Why was it that she never had anything nice to wear? Oh, right. Because she was so caught up with grading, George Freaking Weasley, and naughty Kneazles that she never had time to shop for new ones.

She flipped through a row of nearly identical pencil skirts with a growl. This day wasn’t going to be much different than any other day. It wasn’t like in years past, when the only day the entire year she was guaranteed to see a certain handsome-beyond-belief, irritating blond was the day Draco Malfoy gave his presentation to her Muggle Studies class.

Oh no, these days he was an oddly addictive thorn in her side nearly every day. 

It must have been some stupid, ingrained habit that she was so overly concerned about her appearance today. It wasn’t as though Draco hadn’t seen her—very recently, in fact—wearing leggings covered in her own face. And it wasn’t like she wanted to seduce him. Not anymore. 

Tomorrow night, she was going to shake his hand at the Gala, then turn straight to whatever date he’d brought along and shake hers as well, as if none of it mattered to her.

He didn’t ever need to know that she was so weak-willed that she’d fallen in love with him, despite it being a completely unproductive thing to do. It didn’t matter. It was irrelevant. 

Nevertheless, the navy blue pleated skirt did make her hips flare in an attractive, yet professional way, so she may as well wear that. She flipped through several hangers of tops before landing on her newest white button-down. That seemed right— _ not  _ because it reminded her of the way Draco’s biceps moved beneath the fabric of his Oxford. Not because of that, but because there was no reason she shouldn’t look nice on any given day of the week.

She twisted her wand into her curls and murmured an anti-frizz charm for good measure before wandering to Meowfoy’s favorite spot—the circular cushion on her desk—for a goodbye pat. A small patch of white fur clung to the velvety fabric. She’d forgotten that Meowfoy was still taking up residence at Draco’s flat, probably curled up next to his snooty little girlfriend. Girlcat. Baby mama. What was the proper term for your Kneazle’s lover, anyway?

Hermione’s curls bounced around her shoulders as she shook her head and reached for her front door. She was not going to allow herself to be distracted. This was the same as any other day. 

But it wasn’t the same. It really, really wasn’t. In fact, what surprised Hermione the most about this day was how profoundly different it was from every other day—from every other year that Draco had waltzed into her classroom to give his speech on the evils of pure-blood ideology.

And not only because the dark circles under his eyes and the less-than-perfect press of his shirt broke her heart. 

Draco shifted on the balls of his feet once, twice, three times—then opened his mouth to address Hermione’s class. “When I was a boy, I thought I was special. I was golden. The very blood which ran through my veins since the day of my birth was somehow blessed by the Gods, or by magic itself, to be extraordinary.”

They were the same words, but this year they rang differently in Hermione’s mind. She didn’t doubt that he meant them. She didn’t wonder if he was grudgingly reciting a speech the court had written for him. Was it because she knew him now? Was that what had made the difference?

His eyes lingered on her, catching her attention as he delivered his next sentence. “My mother always told me I’d grow up, find a nice, Sacred-28 registered witch to marry, and pass my blessed blood onto the next generation. She implied that to do anything less would be to anger my ancestors beyond the veil, to dirty the family line.” Draco shook his head. “I’m here to tell you that she was wrong. There’s nothing ‘blessed’ or ‘pure’ about my blood. It holds no more magic than any other witch’s or wizard’s, and there is no reason to hold it in esteem.”

Hermione frowned. He always said this, every year, and she’d never believed it. Interact and befriend muggle-borns, sure; she’d seen it herself. But marry one? 

With the archaic magical binding ceremonies making divorce impossible, Pure-bloods only get one spouse. Why settle for anything less than perfection—especially if your status, money, and delectably good looks could get it for you?

Not that she, herself, believed her blood to be imperfect. She just doubted that Draco didn’t mark it down in the “cons” column when it came to dating her, right next to “overly bossy” and “decidedly uncultured.” No wonder he was taking some mystery pure-blood to the gala tomorrow.

She glanced up at his eyes, earnest and focused on her, and her breath caught. 

Maybe he hadn’t given up on her after all.

It was something she shouldn’t want, but she desperately did. So much so, that when the bell rang to dismiss her class and Draco fiddled with his cufflinks instead of turning towards the door, Hermione blanched.

What would happen if she stayed until the last student left? What would happen if she let all her walls fall down and confessed everything she’d been feeling?

She could tell him about her cat’s name, and how she’d thought of him even before he’d wedged himself into her life. She could tell him how she recognized him based on his scent alone, and how she’d gamble her last galleon that her Amortentia smelled of cedarwood and magical dry cleaning. 

She could tell him that even George Weasley thought they were destined for each other.

If she stayed, she didn’t think she’d be able to keep it in. 

So she ran. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my lovely readers! Thank you so much for all of your thoughts on last week's chapter. Hope you enjoyed this one as well, and that everyone is having an as-good-as-can-be-expected quarantine.


	14. Chapter 14

All day Friday, Hermione tried to focus on the discussions she was trying to lead on—what was it again? Symbolism in Muggle Holidays? Or was it Muggle tendencies towards consumerism and their effects on both wizarding and Muggle traditions?

She wasn’t sure, because her traitorous attention kept wandering out of the window to the freshly fallen snow. Malfoy Manor would look glorious tonight, covered in a thin blanket of white and decorated to the vaulted ceilings.

When Draco passed her in the castle halls, Hermione flashed him a shy smile. All she got in return was a downcast glance and shifty eyes. Hermione’s stomach dropped. Yesterday during his presentation, she’d hoped they were on their way to mending their bruised relationship. Her avoidance of him this week must have done more damage than she’d thought.

Well, at least tonight she’d have the chance to set things right. Being in a romantic relationship with Draco, as much as she might wish otherwise, wasn’t working out. But she could at least be his friend, even if her heart ached every time she waved goodbye without feeling the warmth of his arms around her or the soft press of his lips against hers.

Besides, he still had her Kneazle. It was time for Draco Meowfoy to come home.

All day, she mindlessly managed her classroom, her mind’s eye focused on how Draco would glow tonight in the tailored black tux he wore every year. She was still buried deep inside her imagination at 7:00 pm when a knock, quick and impatient, fluttered against her front door. “Coming!” she called, snapping the cap back on her mulberry lipstick and rushing to open the door.

On the other side, Harry stood with his arm linked through Ginny’s, both of them sparklier than any other night of the year. The hem of Ginny’s red gown brushed the carpet. Harry wore a tiny holly spring, three waxy leaves and a cluster of red berries, in the pocket of his black tuxedo.

“I see you’ve embraced the ‘kickoff to Christmas’ theme,” Hermione said, wiggling her eyebrows at them as she stepped into the hall. Late November was too early for a Christmas-themed gala, in Hermione’s opinion. But there were so many things she didn’t know—enough to fill an entire Pureblood Aristocracy handbook.

Ginny bounced in her heels, excitement radiating off her freckled face. Then her arms were around Hermione’s shoulders, squeezing with uncontainable joy. “You are gorgeous! I’m honestly a little jealous. There’ll be a line of blokes waiting to dance with you. Want me to keep an eye out? Send a sprig of mistletoe your way if things are getting good?”

Hermione slapped Ginny playfully on the arm. “No I do not, and if I catch you even thinking about it, I will hex your freckles green to match Harry’s boutonniere!”

“You wouldn’t dare. I’ve recently learned a very convincing Medusa curse. I don’t think you want to find out if it has any long-term effects on curly hair.”

Hermione laughed. At least her gown had gained Ginny’s approval. When it came to fashion, Ginny’s taste was admirable. And if Ginny liked it, well… Hermione didn’t want to be petty, but maybe this dress would make Draco regret whatever witch he had draped on his arm tonight.

It was a floor-length number. Hermione was no expert, but even she knew that floor-length was practically mandatory for winter galas. Navy blue fabric hugged her from bust to her hip, then flared towards the floor. But her favorite part was the peek-a-boo lace slit with embroidered navy flowers that showed off her calves. She’d even tamed her hair into glossy curls and applied tasteful make-up.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this beautiful.

Thirty minutes later, when the doorman checked her name on the guest list and she stepped off the red carpet into the enchanted ballroom, she was glad she’d taken the extra effort.

Enchanted snow fell from the ceiling, but disappeared midair about six feet above the white marble floor. Still, two dozen Christmas trees, adorned with silver snowflakes and blue baubles, sparkled with a dusting of white powder.

Even amidst all the glamour, something sour settled in Hermione’s stomach. She could picture it so clearly now, even clearer than the images that had haunted her all day: Draco leaning his elbow onto one of the blue velvet tablecloths to whisper in his date’s ear. Draco sweeping onto the dance floor, gliding a witch in an elegant gown in a waltz to the sweet melodies of the live orchestra.

Hermione blinked the images away as Narcissa Malfoy floated forward to greet them. “Mr. and Mrs. Potter! So lovely to have you here. And Miss Granger. Draco will be delighted.”

Hermione held back a snort—the last thing she needed was the entire room glaring at her. “Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy.”

Narcissa led them to a four-seater table with a—rather distasteful, in Hermione’s opinion—centaur ice-sculpture centerpiece and waved her hand at silver-embossed place cards. “I’ve seated you here, not too close to the orchestra, but not too far from the dance floor either.” Narcissa graced her with a small smile. “I think you will find your dinner companion most enlightening.”

“That’s very thoughtful, Mrs. Malfoy,” said Hermione.

But Narcissa’s attention was back at the entryway, on a wizard with a two-foot-tall furry black hat. “I hope you’ll excuse me. I must greet the Earl of Wright.”

Harry snickered as he dropped into his satin-draped chair and poured himself a glass of water from the crystal pitcher at their table. The ballroom was half-full of guests, but none with platinum blond hair and piercing gray eyes. She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved that their table only sat four people. There was no chance she’d be sharing a water pitcher with Draco and his date. Which reminded her…

Hermione shifted to the right and peered at her still-absent neighbor’s place card. “Luiz Fuego.”

Harry’s ears perked up. “Fuego—Isn’t that the name of one of your first-years? Teddy keeps writing to me with stories of his best friend, Tomás Fuego…”

Hermione snatched the card and held it in front of her eyes, watching as the silver script reflected the candlelight. “I wonder if they’re related. I’ve never met anyone else by that name.”

A low voice rumbled behind her, “Sí, Señorita. This is because there are not any Fuegos of Britain; we have our family home in Spain.”

Hermione whipped around. A tall, tan-skinned man with a handful of graceful silver streaks around the temples of his otherwise jet-black hair stood behind her chair, arms crossed behind his back and a charming grin on his face.

“Mr. Fuego! I’m so sorry. We were just wondering if—”

“Is ok, Miss Granger. You were just wondering if your student was my relation. I am proud to claim Tomás as my child.”

Luiz Fuego settled into the chair next to Hermione and angled his torso towards her. “In fact, I am pleased to meet this famous Miss Granger, who has been the subject of many letters home. Tell me, Miss Granger, is it often that you take these students in the forbidden woods for adventures?”

“I… uh, no. I’m so sorry about that. I normally would never—”

Luiz’s laugh was deep, yet held a quick rhythm that rang of lightheartedness. “No need to apologize. I had hoped that my son be given many adventures at this British school. That is what is famous for, no?”

Ting-ting-ting-ting!

Fortunately, Hermione was spared answering as the tap of a wand against a half-full flute of champagne called the room’s attention. Unfortunately, what she saw on the circular stage between the orchestra and the dance floor shocked her even more than Luiz’s comments.

Mistletoe. Hundreds—no, thousands—of sprigs of wiggling, dancing mistletoe had somehow been sewn together to form cloth. Then some idiot had forced that cloth into the shape of a men’s three-piece suit and thrown it over the shoulders and legs of Draco Malfoy. It was at least twenty-five times worse than the Polyjuice potion leggings he’d “gifted” her, especially considering this was a high-class event.

Especially considering that every other year, Draco had worn a fitted black tuxedo to this gala.

What on earth had Lavender threatened him with? Surely he wouldn’t disgrace himself to this degree to save Hermione’s job. It couldn’t be to save his own career; teaching at Hogwarts wasn’t even his dream. There must be something more…

Ah, and there it was. To the left of the stage, empty champagne flute in hand, stood the harpy herself. Lavender Brown shot Draco a simpering glance and tucked her handkerchief into the pocket of her own mistletoe-leaf knee-length gown.

Hermione felt her shoulders stiffen. What would possess Draco to bring Lavender Brown to the gala? Was Draco hiding not one, but two secret romances?

Hermione took a deep breath. There might be an answer hidden in Draco’s speech. She shook her head and tried to listen.

“...pleasure to welcome you all to Malfoy Manor. I hope that—”

But wait. Draco hadn’t spoken to her all week. Sure, she’d been avoiding him, but he hadn’t even tried. Not really. Poppyseed muffins and cufflink adjustments aside, he hadn’t even knocked on her door.

It seemed so far-fetched, so ridiculous but then… so did George Weasley bribing two of her students to play match-maker spies so he could enlist her in a marketing campaign for fortune-telling sea anemones. So did her trusted veterinarian lying about neutering her cat because she didn’t believe in the concept.

“..to our charity of the evening, the foundation for wartime orphans—”

Every time she passed him in the hallways, he looked at the stone floor. Had he been hiding this from her all along?

All year, she’d been betrayed by people she’d trusted. Perhaps her problem was that she wasn’t willing to see people for what they really were: Selfish. Deceptive. Scheming.

“...and my lovely date, Miss Lavender Brown. Please enjoy—”

Hermione snorted into her mixed berry salad. Lovely indeed. She felt a warm breath next to her ear as Luiz leaned over to whisper, “Is that what they are wearing on the islands these days? I am shocked we have not seen these trends in Barcelona.”

Even Hermione’s cloth napkin couldn’t hide her fit of giggles. She thought she saw Draco send a glare in her direction, but it was gone before she could blink and turn to her seatmate.

Draco’s opening remarks must have concluded, for the room now buzzed with the beginnings of polite small talk and a few muffled guffaws.

“What is it you do in Barcelona, Mr. Fuego? I’ve heard a bit about Tomás’ mother from his essays, and I’m so curious to know about the other side of his family.”

“What, Tomás has not told you?” Luiz’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “But our family is part of the proud tradition of fire-crafting! Tomás himself has earned the ranks of… how you say? Air? Ox-ee-gen?”

“Fire-crafting?” A Muggle pyromaniac for a mother and a wizard fire-crafter for a father. No wonder Tomás was so… well, Tomás.

“Yes, yes. It is a shame they do not teach it at your school. Still, Hogwarts have the tradition of being brave, a trait I can admire.”

Luiz reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wand. “It is dragon heart that hold the fire best.” He ran his fingers over beautifully carved flames on the surface of his wand. “Allow me to do demonstration.”

Harry reached his hand out as if to interfere, but Luiz was quick. His wand twisted and turned over the tablecloth until a ball of violet flames the size of a baseball formed over Hermione’s untouched plate of mixed greens. It danced and flickered until it formed an apple-sized unicorn, which licked its paw and settled down in front of a glazed walnut.

“It’s incredible! How is it achieved?”

“Is a well-kept secret of my people. Now, that filly will not fade. You may even take it home in your handbag if you wish. It is self-contained, so no explosion can happen.”

Hermione opened her mouth to express her gratitude, but Draco and Lavender crossed in front of their table, startling the words right out of her mouth.

His hand sat against the middle of Lavender’s back, and he led her to a table only two away from Hermione’s. Her stomach churned. Was she going to have to spend the whole party pretending not to look at Draco, her Draco, sharing dinner with Lavender Brown, of all people?

“Is something wrong, Miss Granger?”

Hermione tore her eyes away from Draco and back to Luiz, whose expression had turned mildly concerned.

“Nothing at all.”

His hand brushed her shoulder. “Good. It has been a long time since I have gone to a party single, but now I find myself a… how you say, a man alone, and as such, I—”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. Could Tomás’ nonchalance about expulsion had something to do with missing his mother?

“Tomás mentioned something about his mother living in America.”

Luiz’s hand dropped to his lap. “Yes, I am afraid so. We have ended our marriage, and she has gone back to her family.”

“I’m so sorry.”

The champagne in Luiz’s crystal goblet swirled around and around, a tiny tornado in a glass. After a moment, he placed it above his dinner plate and grinned back up at Hermione. “Don’t be, Señorita. My father always say to never mix fire with fire. We were both too much for the other.”

She should have been listening, gathering any information she could. But Hermione’s gaze had wandered off, two tables over, to where Lavender stood laughing. How dare she place her hand possessively on Draco’s arm? How dare she pull him towards the dance floor?

Draco hesitated; his eyes darted up to meet Hermione’s, wide with an emotion Hermione couldn’t place. Whatever it was, it wasn’t reassuring, especially since he went ahead and followed on the heels of Lavender. Stupid matching mistletoe outfits. Stupid gala. Stupid everything.

Suddenly, there was never a better time for Hermione to cut her rosemary chicken into bite-sized pieces.

Harry raised his eyebrows at her from across the table. “Geez, Hermione, what did that chicken ever do to you?”

She stabbed a piece with her fork and shoved it into her mouth. She would not let Draco ruin her evening. She would have a perfectly lovely time. After all, she was not the kind of girl who let silly, impractical office romances interfere with her goals.

So, instead of peeking glances at the dancefloor, she kept her eyes trained on her roasted potatoes. She nodded along as Luiz jabbered on about Spain, and Tomás, and Muggle motorcycle gangs.

Finally, as she shoved the final bite of chicken into her mouth, the orchestra paused. Polite applause peppered the ballroom. Hermione sighed in relief. The song was over, Draco and Lavender would return to their table, and she could relax. She watched through her eyelashes as Draco swept his arm towards the table as if to lead his date off the dancefloor.

But Lavender didn’t budge. That witch simpered and pouted, lilac-painted nails flicking one of the mistletoe leaves on Draco’s—well, Hermione assumed it was supposed to be a suit jacket—until he relented. If Hermione weren’t so angry, it would have been funny. They looked like a couple of bushes swaying in a rhythmic windstorm.

Hermione slammed her napkin down next to her plate. “Do you dance, Luiz?”

Luiz’s eyebrows shot up. “Is a silly question to ask of a Spaniard. Does the lady wish to dance? We make your boyfriend jealous, no?”

Ginny snickered into her napkin, shooting a glance at Harry’s face and an elbow to his ribs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I do not have a boyfriend.” Hermione crossed her arms and made her best teacher face.

“Sí, sí, por su puesto.” With a wink, Luiz stood from his chair and held out his arm.

The next few minutes were a blur of spins and dips. Luiz flourished Hermione across the dancefloor with dizzying fluidity. “White Christmas” was probably not intended for... whatever ballroom dance Luiz was leading her through. She silently prayed that she didn’t look as clumsy as she felt.

On their second trip around the floor, she caught Draco staring at her over Lavender’s shoulder, his mouth pulled into a thin line. Served him right.

“So, Luiz, I have a question for you: I’ve noticed that Tomás has unusual eyes. Is it a magical phenomenon?” Hermione asked.

Luiz’s face brightened. “Ah yes, Tomás is very special boy. He is, as we say—twin flame.”

“A… twin flame?”

“Sí, sí—also called chimera. Tomás, he had a twin in the womb. But instead of being born in two bodies, the twins, they joined themselves as one. So he have one brown eye, one blue—one eye looking out on the world from each twin.” Luiz pulled Hermione into a double spin, and she nearly tripped over Draco. She glimpsed his eyes, narrowed and focused on her over Lavender’s shoulder before Luiz pulled her back into his hold.

“Is a very special gift in my culture. They say those born with the twin flame have unusual ability to create fire with passion. Is why—”

Right in the middle of Luiz’s sentence, a warm finger tapped on Hermione’s bare shoulder. She whipped her head around to see Draco, stony-eyed and statue-stiff.

He cleared his throat. “Do you mind if I cut in? I haven’t yet had the chance to dance with my colleague.”

Hermione pressed her lips together. This was not the plan. He was going to expose their non-existent relationship with his theatrics.

Luiz’s grin doubled. “Oh, of course, Señor.” He took Hermione’s hand and placed it in Draco’s. “The lady is all yours.”

Lavender’s mouth fell open, presumably to protest, but Luiz was faster. He inclined his head toward Lavender, gave a graceful half-bow, and offered his hand. “May I have this dance?”

Draco snatched Hermione’s waist and tugged her all the way to the edge of the floor. His hand sent shivers up her lower back. How long had it been since she’d touched him? A week? She should be furious about Lavender, and about his public display of jealousy, but her hold on her anger was slipping. She wanted to melt into his arms.

But the way Draco’s hand held hers suggested he was in no mood to melt her. “What are you doing? Flirting with a student’s father?”

He spun her away, then back to him, the tiniest bit closer than she had been before.

“I wasn’t flirting. I was gathering information.”

His mistletoe rustled as he leaned close and hissed in her ear, “That’s not what it looked like to me. Why is it that you were so terrified to stick one toe over the line when it was with me, and yet here you are getting all chummy with Mr. Fuego like it means nothing to you?”

Hermione ground her teeth together. It appeared she still had some anger in her, after all. “Your mother seated me with him. I didn’t choose this! I thought—”

“You thought you’d make me jealous. It’s revenge, isn’t it? You couldn’t stand the sight of me with Lavender, so you thought—”

“Shhhh! Keep your voice down, people are staring.” Hermione’s eyes darted around at all the gazes trained on them—Luiz, Harry, Ginny—and Professor McGonagall, lips pursed, squinting at them from across the room.

Draco’s voice dropped back down to a whisper. “Do you think I wanted to come here with Lavender? I look like a fool. For such a smart witch, you can be so daft.”

“I—”

“And there’s the other thing! Do you have so little faith in me that you think I would play silly games with you?” A flash of hurt shone in Draco’s eyes for a moment before he blinked it away. He sighed and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Hermione’s ear.

“We are not done talking about this. Unfortunately, the song is ending and if you wish to remain—secret—I’m going to have to let you go and move on.”

As if on cue, a final note rang out from the strings section and the crowd broke out into polite applause. Draco removed his hand from Hermione’s back, and with it the warmth, and linked her arm through his. Every step they took, away from the dancefloor and towards her table, felt like a fresh rip in the fabric of her heart.

Before he released her, he murmured in her ear, “Meet me later. I’ll be free from this obligation by midnight. You can wait for me in my flat if you wish—at the very least, there’s a certain Kneazle who has been dying to see you.”

Hermione pushed her grilled asparagus around on her dinner plate as she dreamed of Draco Meowfoy’s bright blue eyes and soft, silky fur.

But as much as she wanted to see Meowfoy, she had no idea what would happen if she waited for Draco in his flat. Would he break it off for good? Let her know, in no uncertain terms, that he’d had enough of her mistrust and indecision?

Harry and Ginny still sat at the table, obnoxiously taking bites of each other’s black forest cake.

“Harry, what time is it?” Hermione asked.

Harry pushed up the sleeve of his suit jacket and glanced at his wristwatch. “Half-past nine.”

Two and a half hours counted as an appearance, didn’t it? There was no joy in staying. She couldn’t watch Draco with Lavender for another minute. Besides, she had a date with a Kneazle, and nothing was going to get in her way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: This chapter is dedicated to my grandmother, whose lovely accent was the music of my childhood.
> 
> And to you, my lovely readers, for all your enthusiasm and the love you leave me. Thank you.


	15. Chapter 15

The door to Draco’s flat was locked, but he must have enchanted it to open to her wand’s signature, because a simple  _ Alohomora _ undid it. Hermione couldn’t help the grin that stretched across her face as she stepped through the threshold and spied a pair of pointy seal-brown ears twitching with interest.

Meowfoy sat sentry by the leather cat chaise, his posture stiff and his eyes wary. But as soon as the door clicked shut, he sauntered over, tail high in the air, and rubbed his face against her dress. “Oh, Draco! I’ve missed you so much.” 

Warm fur, soft purrs, and elated bliss melted into Hermione’s arms before she could even make her way to her favorite spot on the couch. When she did, she sank into it and shut her eyes, breathing in the spearmint and cedarwood. The scent threatened to pull her in, invited her to drown in the confusion and heartache she’d endured at the gala. But just before she set her emotions free, a furry face pressed against her hand—a reprimand for neglecting to scratch behind its pointy ears. 

“You naughty thing, refusing to come home to your mama. My flat has been so lonely.”

Draco lifted his chin for Hermione to scratch and closed his eyes. It was almost bliss, except for the pesky, nagging emotions at the back of her brain. She needed a distraction. Preferably a nonfiction one, but she’d take whatever she could find. Careful not to disturb her cat, she groped the coffee table, one-handed, until her fingers brushed against a thick leather spine. “Let’s see what your troublesome namesake has been reading lately.” 

The cover was shiny, but a crack ran down the spine. She ran her fingers over the title: Improved Communication with the Witch You Love.

So much for a distraction. All the heartache she’d been trying to ignore, all the loneliness she’d endured, came streaming down her face. It seemed so silly now. She couldn’t stand seeing him with anybody else, especially at that stupid gala, but she was unwilling to claim him as her own. Unwilling to be the companion he needed.

And yet, what choice did she have? The future of the wizarding world depended on cultural education. And she couldn’t ask Draco to sacrifice his job, not when she was unwilling to do the same.

She thumbed through the pages of the book and ran her fingers over underlined passages. If she could stop crying enough to read them, maybe she’d find a solution to her problems.

Pages fanned through the air, strummed by her fingers, until they stopped on page 247. There, tucked between an illustration of two wands shooting sparks to form a single heart and the beginning of  _ Chapter five: Compromise, _ was a receipt for two cherry scones. 

Draco must have been using it as a bookmark. The sweetest bookmark in existence, and not only because it was from her favorite bakery. She wiggled it out of the page gap, and the motion revealed emerald script—Draco’s script—on the other side. 

_ Lavender Brown, Queen of the Foul _

_ -Luluwitch Consultant—why? Who is her upline? (research: business limitations) _

_ -Extreme debt (bankruptcy a possibility) _

_ -Expose her blackmail (research: blackmail precedence) _

_ -Willing to go to extreme lengths—what are her personal stakes? More than money? _

_ -In cahoots with McGonagall _

_ -Getting on my last nerve _

Reading the list once, twice, and a third time, Hermione’s frown grew deeper and deeper. She’d been so wrong. Draco was nothing like Dr. Calamity. Nothing like George Weasley.

Draco hadn’t betrayed her.

If he’d been lying to her, carrying on a secret affair, why had he underlined passages in a relationship self-help book? Why would he tirelessly research legal precedent to bring Lavender down?

It was blackmail all along. She’d blackmailed him into wearing that bush to the ball, and he’d gone along with it. 

And Hermione had been stupid enough to doubt him. A black hole of guilt tore through her stomach. She wasn’t even sure if ice cream could make her feel better, but it was worth a shot. 

“Sorry, Meowfoy.” He glared at her as she lifted him off her lap and placed him on the couch. 

Draco’s freezer, it turned out, did not hold ice cream. But it did hold Bordeaux, and that was almost as good. 

As soon as she resettled, crystal goblet in hand, Meowfoy reclaimed his spot between her knees. She stroked his fur and sipped her wine until the street below quieted its rustling and the moon moved behind the treeline. She must have fallen asleep, because her eyelids blinked open heavily when the doorknob rattled.

Draco’s feet dragged across the carpet, his shirt uncharacteristically untucked from his waistband. Hermione glanced at the silver clock on the wall: it was two in the morning. 

She bit the inside of her lip. He must be furious with her, and she couldn’t blame him. Tired hands draped a black woolen coat onto a polished rack, moving sluggishly through the moonlight as if they dreaded what came next. Hermione empathised with them. What words could express her regret, her shame to the man she had wrongfully doubted? 

The only word that came to mind was, “Hey.”

Draco ran his hands through his hair and lowered himself onto the couch next to her. “Look, Hermione, I’m sorry I snapped at you. I suppose I don’t have any claim to your time or your attention, especially if I’m not man enough to face the consequences of going public.” He paused as a very furry, very fat tortoiseshell cat meowed at his feet. With a small smile, he scooped Furry onto his lap and stroked her abundant fur. 

Hermione winced. “I’m sorry. I should have known Lavender was blackmailing you into taking her.”

Furry narrowed her eyes at Draco, whose hand had gone still. “Sorry, pretty girl.” He scratched behind Furry’s ears until she closed her eyes, content. “Do you know that the whole time you were there, when you were sitting with him, I couldn’t take my eyes off of you? And I was just fuming, furious that he got to smile at you, got to make you laugh, got to dance with you and I couldn’t.”

“Trust me, I know exactly how you feel.”

“Do you?” Draco turned sideways on the couch and took her hands in his. “Because if you do, if your heart is aching for the chance to stand by my side in front of our family and friends instead of chasing stolen moments in abandoned classrooms, why are we still doing this? Why are we hiding?”

Furry glared at Draco, presumably for his audacity to change positions under her pregnant self, and abandoned his lap in favor of butting her head against Meowfoy’s, waking him from his midnight nap. 

“Draco, you know we can’t go public. It’s against school rules—we’ll be sacked.”

“You really think McGonagall would sack you, the best Muggle Studies professor in the history of ever, for breaking a tiny little rule?”

Hermione snorted. “The history of ever—I hate to tell you this, but you are terribly biased.”

“Really, though. You think McGonagall cares? I’ll bet that rule’s been on the books since Slytherin himself walked the halls. I’ll bet she doesn’t even know it exists.”

“I don’t know, Draco…”

“And if she does, if she cares… I’ll take responsibility. I’ll resign, and you’ll be free to continue your passion of teaching snot-nosed pure-bloods the true meaning of life without the scandal of dating your coworker.”

Hermione swallowed and tucked her knees under her chin. “But you’re an excellent potions master.” Besides, there was that other pesky thing. “And if it doesn’t work out? What if you give up everything for me, only to discover I’m not right for you?”

His hand, warm and comforting, reached up to stroke her cheek. “Not right for me? How could you be wrong?”

“Lots of ways.” Hermione stared down at her bare feet. Her unpainted toes peeked out from the hem of her dress, stark against the leather cushions. “I’ve never been at home in the grandeur that surrounds you. Those galas, tea with your mother… I’m not impoverished, but I’m no high-society lady. I won’t fit in.”

Draco was already shaking his head. “We could use a dose of normal in our family. You would only improve things.”

“And what about… well, I’m not exactly…” 

“Spit it out, love.”

Blood rushed to her cheeks. “Maybe it doesn’t bother you now. Maybe it’s fine for you to have a Muggleborn girlfriend. But—” 

“Ah. You’re afraid that I’ll eventually leave you for a pure-blood to carry on my pointy, inbred heritage?”

Hermione’s fingers reached for the cats, snuggled behind her on the couch. Their ears were too soft not to scratch. Right now, in fact, at this very moment.

“Hermione, look at me.”

Furry meowed. Draco reached for Hermione’s chin and gently turned it towards himself. “Do you really think I could leave you and the grandkittens? For some dull high-society bint?”

_ Grandkittens _ . A surprised laugh burst from Hermione’s chest. It wasn’t even that funny, but the laughter built until her lungs ached. She swiped tears from her eyes and laughed into her knees, her whole body shaking until Draco said, concerned—“It really is late, isn’t it? I should get you to bed.”

Hermione glanced at the clock. “2:30.” More laughter. “It’s a good thing we have our cat-perones with us, or the neighbors might think us improper.”

“Cat-perones?”

“You know, like chaperones, only they’re cats, so—”

Draco stood from the couch and dusted non-existent lint from his pant legs. “Yep, definitely bedtime for you.” She squealed as he scooped her into his arms, bridal style, and walked towards the back of the flat.

“Where are you going? The door’s that way.”

“Oh no, no—you’re sleeping here tonight. Every day for the entire week he’s been here, Meowy has woken me up at the crack of dawn, meowing under the door for you. You’re going to snuggle up in my bed, and you’re going to be happy about it. I’d like some actual sleep tonight.”

He stepped through his bedroom door and dropped her onto a thick, black comforter. “Your bed is black? It figures.” Her hand flew to her mouth in a vain attempt to prevent more Bordeaux-and-exhaustion giggles from escaping.

He rolled his eyes and turned towards the door.

“Wait, if I’m sleeping here, where are you going to sleep?”

“On the couch, obviously, like the proper gentleman you seem to think I am.”

“Wait!”

“Wait, what?”

“Two things. You really expect me to sleep in this dress?”

He slid open his dresser drawers, his mouth pulled up in a scheming smirk. Half a minute later, a pair of sweatpants and a green T-shirt with “Malfoy” printed across the back flew through the air and landed on her bare toes. 

“There. Happy?”

Her arms folded across her chest. “No. You’ve forgotten the second thing.”

“You never told me the second thing.”

She pointed to her lips. “I didn’t get my goodnight kiss.”

The most beautiful smile Hermione had ever seen lit up Draco’s face. “And how could I forget your goodnight kiss?”

The bed creaked under their combined weight as he lay down next to her, elbow on the sheets and chin in his hand, and peered down into her face. Warm fingers traced her cheek, then her nose, and finally the outline of her lips. 

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Are you going to kiss me, or what?”

His laughter rumbled through her chest, deep and melodious and perfect. “So bossy. It’s been a little while since you’ve invited me to, so I thought I would savor the moment.”

“Less savoring. More kissing.”

Draco leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss on Hermione’s lips, then retreated and stared into her eyes. With an impatient grunt, she slipped her hand behind his head and pushed it down to meet her hungry mouth. 

He tasted like heaven. She couldn’t believe it had been an entire week since she had run her fingers through his silken hair, or her palms over his chest. She was secretly glad for the moisture that lingered on her face from her laughing fit, for she would have been embarrassed to show just how much emotion his forgiveness poured into her.

His hands moved down to the small of her back and pressed her closer into his arms. Never again. She was never letting him go again, no matter the cost. So when he pulled back and ran his thumbs over her cheeks, her lips drew into a pout.

“Why’d you stop?”

Draco offered her a wistful smile and placed his feet on the floor. “It’s late, you’ve been drinking, and we both need to sleep. But don’t worry—I’ll still be here in the morning.”

After Draco left, and Hermione had pulled on the sweatpants that smelled of spearmint; of cedarwood and magical dry cleaning, she propped the bedroom door open. Her heart and mind raced, but she was succumbing to her exhaustion when the tiny pad of paws trotted up her chest. She smiled and stroked Draco Meowfoy’s hair—nearly as silky and just as soft as his human counterpart’s. She had no doubt that she would sleep better tonight than she had all week. 

* * *

  
  
  


Soft light filtered through the gauzy white curtains of Draco’s bedroom. With sleepy eyes, Hermione watched her cat slither out from beneath the heavy comforter. Having him back was heaven, even for one night. She doubted Meowfoy would let her bring him home, at least not without a literal hissy fit. Yawning, she scratched behind his ears. “I can’t believe I went a whole week without you. I missed you too much.” He purred and lifted his chin for her to scratch, and she sighed. “I love you, Draco.”

A flutter of movement in the doorframe nearly made her scream. Human Draco smirked silently by the open door, inspecting his cuticles. Hermione buried her head in her knees. Had he heard?

“Well, Granger, that’s quite a lot to process before breakfast. There’s a lovely little bakery around the corner—why don’t we continue this conversation there?”

Oh, yes. He had definitely heard. Not only that, but he had used her surname, something he only did when he was distancing himself from her. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. They’d come so far last night, and now her morning brain had ruined everything. 

“I didn’t mean—”

“Hermione, what else could you have possibly meant? It’s ok, I—”

_ Bang. Bang. Bang-bang-bang-bang! _

The sound of frantic knocking ruined whatever Draco was about to say. He raised a single eyebrow at Hermione as she scrambled out of the sheets. 

“Wait, let me explain—”

His eyes ran down her body, over his T-shirt, the borrowed sweatpants and down to her toes. For a moment she hoped he’d listen, but then he turned and jogged to his front door. His hand was on the doorknob, poised to turn, when Hermione blurted out, “The cat’s name is Draco!”

He froze—statue still, Narcissa still—and slowly turned back to face her.

“You named your cat after me.” His eyebrows pulled together. “How long have you had that cat?”

It was first year all over again, Ron making an unflattering remark to Harry about Hermione’s social awkwardness. Shame flooded in through her skull and out through her burning cheeks. She hated to chance checking Draco’s expression, but her eyes flitted there of their own accord. A flicker of something—amusement? derision?—flashed through them before a high-pitched shriek interrupted their stand-off.

“Draco Malfoy, open up now! I know you’re in there!”

Ah, yes. Lavender Brown had arrived to issue a new blackmail order, now that her previous favors had been fulfilled. 

With a grimace, Draco turned the doorknob. He had barely twisted it when the door swung open rudely, aided by the frazzled woman on the other side.

But frazzled didn’t cover it. All the other times Lavender Brown had cornered Hermione with her pastel briefcase to hawk her wares or threaten her peace, she had looked reasonably well put-together, despite her outlandish legwear. This Lavender had circles under her eyes and hair so frizzy that it threatened to brush against the top of the door. This Lavender wore red-and-green striped leggings and a neon pink t-shirt under a ragged, hand-knitted shawl. 

But the biggest surprise of all was that this Lavender brought with her a burden Hermione had never suspected: a small child with neatly brushed brown hair and a timid gait, as if she feared her tiny feet would break the carpet. 

Hermione and Draco’s eyes met over the child as she walked into the flat like a peasant entering a castle. His gaze was wide, bewildered, and Hermione imagined that hers must mirror it. 

“Come on in then, make yourselves at home,” Draco said, his tone full of confusion.

The child had spotted the cats, rubbing noses on the couch over an open copy of  _ Hogwarts: A History. _ Tiny hands tugged on Lavender’s coat and pointed towards them with eager eyes. 

Lavender smiled, soft and indulgent. “Go ahead, honey. The grown-ups are going to talk.”

The girl skipped to the couch, bouncier now with the prospect of soft fur and belly rubs.

“Who is that?” Draco hissed.

Lavender bit her lip. “That… that, is my daughter. Rosemary Brown.”

“Why have we never seen her before?” asked Hermione.

Lavender sighed, and drew her wand. In an instant, Draco snatched his own wand from his pocket and held it aloft. Over-vigilant, but she couldn’t blame him—the war had changed all of them. If Hermione’s wand wasn’t resting on Draco’s nightstand, she would have drawn it, too. But Lavender didn’t look aggressive; she only looked tired, defeated. Her hands flew above her head in a gesture of surrender. “Sorry. I wasn’t going to try anything. Only… do you mind casting a  _ Muffliato _ ? I’d rather Rosemary didn’t hear this.”

A glare still frozen into his eyebrows, Draco waved his wand and a familiar dull buzzing filled the room. He muttered additional incantations to limit the spell’s reach to the leather couch, where Rosemary sat with the cats. “Now talk,” he said.

“You’ve never met Rosemary because in order to begin my work-from-home career I’ve had to ask my mother to watch her. Nobody wants to buy leggings with a three-year-old toddling around their kitchen.”

Lavender’s story was a sad one, but not a novel one. She’d fallen for a Muggle, and together they’d conceived a child. Perhaps it was rash of her, she said, to allow this to happen with a man who didn’t even know witches existed. But she’d hoped he would be accepting. She’d thought they could be a mixed-blood family, like so many of their Hogwarts peers.

She’d been wrong. When she told him the truth, he reacted so badly that she’d had to take him to the Aurors and have him obliviated. He wasn’t even aware he’d fathered a child, and it would have to stay that way. 

As Hermione listened to Lavender’s story, spoken in hushed tones intermixed with periods of wailing grief, she mentally added to the book she held in her mind, the one entitled _ Silliness and Poor Decisions _ . She’d always thought of Lavender as frivolous, misguided, selfish. But there was a whole side of her she’d never seen, hidden beneath the cover, behind the bare naked facts and interactions she’d shown the world.

She’d hidden a whole daughter away. 

It was an odd, painful reversal of Hermione’s own situation. To save their lives during the war, she had to obliviate her own parents. To save the wizarding world, Lavender had to obliviate her child’s father. And just like Hermione, Lavender had hidden it all away. An entire world of pain and suffering, of loneliness and desperation that Hermione had a profound sense of empathy for. 

Lavender wrapped up her biography with an apologetic grimace. “So, you see, I need one more favor from you. Convince your mother to host a Lulawitch party at the manor, with all of her high-society friends. She knows everyone, and if she says she likes—”

Draco held up his hand, a king silencing his subject. “Stop. I’ve looked into Lulawitch, and—.”

“You have? Wonderful! If you sign on to become a consultant, you’ll be part of my down-line, which means I’ll receive 5% from all the sales you make! And if you get more people to sign—I know you can, you’re the Prince of Magic—you’ll receive 5% of all the sales they make, too!” Hope lit up Lavender’s face. It was brighter than it had been all morning.

Draco shook his head. “No, Lavender. I’ll not be signing on as a consultant.”

A million thoughts seemed to parade through Lavender’s head. “You have to. If you don’t, I’ll tell McGonagall that you’re dating, and she’ll sack you both.”

Hermione tried to picture Draco selling leggings for a living. She couldn’t do it. It didn’t fit. And despite her newfound sympathy for Lavender, she was no doormat.

Hermione broke her silence. “Do it then. We’re not afraid of you anymore. We’re planning to go public, anyway. Unfortunately for you, this little blackmail party has ended.”

Lavender’s eyes turned glassy. She stared at her daughter, then reached into the pockets of her threadbare shawl. Papers rustled inside and she drew out a crumpled pink bill, “Final Notice” stamped across it in angry red letters. “Please.” Her voice had the desperate, defeated quality of a beggar with an outstretched cup. “Please, you’re my only hope. I’ve given up everything to make this work. I’ve poured all my resources into it. It’s my only hope.”

She stood, and her voice hardened as she threw a stack of bills onto Draco’s coffee table. “They told me to sell my valuables. To take out credit cards. To put everything into building my stock. They told me I needed to have a wide selection, to attract buyers. Well now I have a wide selection, but nobody is buying. Nobody except you two.”

Draco’s hands steepled in front of him. “And that’s precisely why Lulawitch must be destroyed.”

Hermione stared. She’d rarely heard the vindictive, grim determination in Draco’s voice. Not when he lectured his students on the dangers of mismeasurement in his potions classroom. It was absent from his warnings of proper decorum to the students who ran in the hallways. The only time she had heard that tone, coming from those stern lips, was when he warned her students of their future regrets, should they cling to their parent’s bigotry. 

She’d missed many, many things this year, but this was the biggest. In the book of Draco Malfoy, after the chapter on his boyish prejudice, was an entire section on his own regret. She had been wrong about him. There was no underlying fantasy of settling down with a pure-blood princess. He had done something she had never dared to hope for: he had changed. Deep down, he had changed.

At that moment, she almost wished she hadn’t taken back her “I love you” from earlier. Almost. When she told him how she felt, she wanted it to be on purpose. He deserved that.

Draco raised his wand, and a book entitled _ Business Practices and Legal Adherence _ flew from his bookshelf, over Rosemary’s head, and into his outstretched hand. He caught it like a snitch and pointed to a passage on a bookmarked page. 

“What that company is doing is illegal. It’s bad practice, and it’s abhorrent. Not only do they purposefully target vulnerable populations, but they pressure them to buy unsellable items on false promises. Did you know that 90% of Lulawitch sellers never turn a profit?”

Lavender’s jaw dropped. “They said I wasn’t working hard enough. They said I just needed to try harder.”

Draco’s mouth pulled into a grim line. “That doesn’t surprise me at all, unfortunately. I’ve been studying it for weeks: Lulawitch is a pyramid scheme. Hundreds of witches share stories similar to yours. It’s a dragon pox on the wizarding world and I intend to stop it.” His fist landed on the leg of his pants with a soft thud. “So, Lavender Brown, you may alert McGonagall, but I intend to do so first. I will hand in my resignation this morning and turn my focus on putting this company out of business.” 

A slow smile spread over Lavender’s face, much like the one she used to wear when Professor Trewlany predicted misfortune for whichever roommate had annoyed her that week. “Don’t worry about McGonagall, I won’t rat you out. But I do have one question.”

“Ask it.” 

“Do you need any help?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Hello hello, my lovelies! I want to once again thank you for all of your support. It brings me great joy to see you reading, favoriting, and following, and most of all to hear what you are thinking. 
> 
> This story is coming to its conclusion, with only one chapter left. I hope it leaves you feeling satisfied. :)
> 
> Beta love to Bex and Gallagher8


	16. Chapter 16

The sun had risen above the picture window by the time Lavender and Rosemary paraded out of Draco’s flat, chins high and faces hopeful.

Hermione shut the door behind them. One question nagged at her, so loudly that it wouldn't stay put between the newly updated saga,  _ Bad Decisions and Silliness,  _ and its companion,  _ Young Rosemary, Timid and Mild _ .

“Why?”

Draco raised his eyebrow at her, perhaps because he had no context or perhaps because he thought it an obvious answer. 

“Why,” he asked, “have I volunteered to bring down a corrupt company? To assist our blackmailer?”

Hermione shook her head. She understood that, now that she saw him. Specifically, now that she saw the streak of nobility he largely hid from the world. She wanted to know, “What made you investigate Lulawitch? You must have started weeks ago.”

A slow smile spread over Draco’s face, and he moved to the huddle of fur on his couch. Furry hissed at him as he gently disentangled her from her boyfriend. “You named your cat after me.”

“Yes, and you only discovered that today, so—”

“Do you remember when I told you my cat’s name?”

Hermione shook her head. Though it had only been three months, it seemed like years ago that Draco had barged his way into her apartment building and upended her life.

“It wasn’t during your hospital stay, during our daily dinner dates. It wasn’t the first time you met her, which would have been logical. No; it wasn’t until I ran to you, terrified that my cat had been possessed, that I finally told you.”

“Well, now that you mention it, it was a bit odd.”

“And then I told you her name was ‘Furry,’ of all things. Frankly, I was shocked you didn’t call me out on what a stupid name that was. But I could see it here.” He stroked the spot between her eyebrows with his fingertip. “You were so confused, and inside I was panicking. What if you discovered the truth? It was so undignified.”

Draco pulled his wand out of his back pocket. “ _ Accio collar.”  _

From somewhere deep in Draco’s flat, a bell tingled. A brown blur whizzed around the corner, and Draco caught it.

“I took this off her when we moved in, as a precautionary measure. But there’s no point in hiding it now. Not anymore.” He held it out in the air between them and gave Hermione a tiny nod.

It was exactly the kind of collar she’d expect Draco to indulge in. Sleek, subtle—it screamed of understated luxury. And there, dangling from what was probably a silver link, was a round pendant. She leaned forward and squinted at the engraved letters:  _ Furmione Grangrrr. _

Draco’s eyes were earnest and open, a startling contrast from the controlled expression he normally wore. “Hermione, I began investigating Lulawitch because I hoped it would lead to the end of Lavender’s blackmail. I wanted you to have peace. But I found something better; I found a way out. I enjoy teaching, but it was never my dream. You were.”

Draco set the cat down and twisted one of Hermione’s curls around his index finger. “I took the position as Potions Master because the sight of your smile as I lectured in your classroom year after year stayed with me long after I exited the castle. I needed more of you in my life. I hope I don’t need to be your coworker to have that any longer.”

Hermione swallowed, her throat heavy. “No. I suppose you don’t.” 

“Good.” There was a sharp  _ clink _ as the cat collar hit the floor, and suddenly Draco’s hands were in her hair. “Because I didn’t get nearly enough of you last night.” 

His lips against hers were soft, sultry—even divine. Last night she had been sleepy, a tiny bit tipsy, and overwhelmingly relieved that he was still hers. But today was different; today she could taste every drop of sweetness he poured into her. Had his kisses always been this slow? Had they always been this adoring? 

Hermione wasn’t sure, because she’d never allowed herself to believe them before. Finally, Draco pulled back and pressed his forehead against hers. His fingers traced her cheek until her eyes blinked open. 

“I realize you didn’t mean what you said this morning; that you were actually talking to your cat.”

Hermione bit her lip. “Well, I—”

“Shh, it’s ok. Perhaps you didn’t mean it, but I do. Hermione Granger, I love you. I have loved you ever since I saw your mouth make that adorable little ‘o’ during the last five minutes of my first speech in your classroom. Maybe even longer.”

Awe blossomed in Hermione’s heart. He’d loved her the whole time; she’d just been too blind to see it. She kissed him; brief, but sincere. “Oh, Draco. I love you, too.”

* * *

Epilogue

* * *

Tomás was building firecastles. Literal castles made of fire complete with tiny waving flags and knights in armor marching back and forth on the walls.

“Excellent. Now try to change the color.” Like a first-year in Honeydukes, George rubbed his hands together, the lapels of his violently purple suit flapping as he bounced on his heels.

Hermione smiled, shaking her head. George really did have the most ridiculous fashion sense. If anyone would appreciate a visit from Lavender, it would be him. Lavender might not have gone bankrupt if she’d tried to sell to George, but then, of course, this year would have been very different.

She might not have ever been compelled to kiss Draco. Even the thought of it was tragic. 

“Aw, Tomás, look at this! I got a flame!” Yellow sparks, small but steady, shone on Teddy’s face, completely overshadowed by his smile. 

Eddie, Johnathan, and Eunice gathered around to celebrate Teddy’s victory.

“No fair! I’ve been trying all week and I still haven’t managed it,” said Eddie. 

“Ah, that’s because you haven’t tried my patented fire-boosting serum, my young Padawan.” George sidled up to him with a smile that could only mean trouble and whipped a tiny blue flask from his jacket pocket.

Eddie cocked his head to one side. “What’s a Padawan?”

Hermione groaned. Ever since Harry had introduced George to the magic of television, he’d been insufferable. Scratch that—George had always been insufferable. But at least now he had a better outlet than stuffing Teddy’s pockets full of joke shop contraband. 

He seemed to be taking his role as an extra-curricular facilitator with a dose of pride, even if it also came with a healthy portion of mischief. 

“George,” Hermione said, “No poisoning the students.”

“Poison?” George gasped, placing one hand over his chest like a little old lady who’d overheard a naughty word. “Hermione, do you even know me?’

“Too well, I’m afraid. Eddie, don’t drink that.”

Some days she regretted bringing George in to channel Tomás’ endless energy. But the number of detentions she’d had to assign had dramatically decreased ever since the advent of Magical Engineering club. With McGonagall finally approving of her job performance, Hermione wasn’t willing to risk upsetting the balance.

George slipped the vial back into his pocket and turned to Tomás and his impressive magical display.

But Tomás wasn’t looking at his firecastle; he was looking at the door. A grin spread slowly across his face, lighting up those mischievous mismatched eyes. “Hey Professor Granger, your boyfriend’s here.”

Draco looked harried. Or should she say… hairy? So much fur clung to his normally pristine robes, it looked like he’d been held captive in an animal shelter. 

He rubbed the back of his head, his eyes shifting wildly around the room. “Hermione? I… she was so—and then she meowed, but it was—and then the tree, oh Merlin the tree, but—”

Tomás grinned. “See ya later, Granger! Don’t forget about my Fire-crafting competition on Saturday.”

Draco must have been extremely distressed, because he didn’t comment on Tomás’ failure to show proper respect to his teacher. In fact, he was silent, staring around the room with wide eyes and parted lips.

“You got this, George?” Hermione called. 

“Actually, I’d really prefer if—”

“What?” She asked, not feeling the least bit guilty. “Sorry, didn’t catch that. I was thinking about the time I had to clean literal spaghetti off of my classroom ceiling.”

Poor Draco was practically hyperventilating. Curbing his impending panic attack was more important than Mr. Anenome-Inspired-Exploitation’s feelings. With a small smile, she slipped her arm around Draco’s back. “You’re ok. Everything will be ok.”

“Should we call a vet? Dr. Calamity?”

Hermione guided Draco off the Quidditch Pitch. “No. Not Dr. Calamity.” Hermione shuddered. “The literature discourages inviting strangers to a Kneazle birth. It stresses them out.”

Draco nodded, but he still looked paler than normal. She squeezed his side. “It’s going to be fine. Everything is just fine. If at any point it’s looking ‘not fine’, we can always call your mother.”

Draco’s eyebrows furrowed. “My mother?”

“Yes, your mother. She was complaining about you, you know. She told me to give you a message.” Hermione raised her eyebrows and the pitch of her voice in a poor imitation of Narcissa. “Tell Draco not to get so caught up in his lawyer business that he forgets to owl. He’s only spoken to me twice in the past two weeks. It’s disgraceful.”

A weak smile broke through the sheen of sweat on Draco’s face.

“Ah, here we are—the apparition point. Best be as quick as possible, right?” Hermione pulled out her wand and squeezed him close. Draco was in no shape to apparate.

Once they popped onto the stoop in front of their apartment building, Draco bolted. He didn’t slow down until he was kneeling next to the cat chaise, panting down at a startled-looking Furmione.

Hermione frowned. “A cat chaise is no place to give birth. Haven’t you set up a box for her?”

“Oh.” Draco scrambled to his face. “I had a spot over there, but…”

Next to the cat tree was a velvet-lined box, filled to the brim—with pillows, every single leaf from the cat tree, and what appeared to be an entire book, the pages ripped to shreds. Draco Meowfoy must have had a little panic attack of his own. Hermione sighed. “It’s ok. Did you know that in first year, I fell into Devil’s Snare and completely forgot I could use my wand to start a fire?” She cast a spell to replace the leaves onto the cat tree’s branches and restored the book. “There. That’s better.”

With another flick of her wand, she pulled the box forward so it was inches from the couches. “Much better.”

With her new, secure box, Furmione looked visibly relieved. She meowed at it, and Hermione lifted her, gentle as a mother, and placed her inside. Meowfoy hopped down from the round hole in the tree and poked his head over the edge of the box, his dark tail twitching and writhing.

Draco frowned. “Now what?”

“Now we wait.”

Draco’s aggravated groan and uncharacteristically hunched shoulders hinted that this waiting thing would not be so easy. “Distract me,” he said. His eyes searched the ceiling for two whole minutes, then snapped back to Hermione. “What was that thing with George? Did you finally solve your classroom mystery?”

Hermione cringed. Thinking about this was terrible for her blood pressure. “Apparently, George is not only a scoundrel, but also a saboteur.”

Draco’s shoulders straightened right out of their unnaturally curled pose. “Really?”

“Sure, Tomás had a troublemaking streak from the start. And sure, Teddy was out to prove himself to his peers and had some ill-gotten idea that his mother would smile down at him from beyond the veil if only he caused a little mayhem.”

“And by ill-gotten, I’m assuming you mean a certain red-headed devil.”

“George! I can’t believe him. He bribed my students to spy on me, to set off his pranks in my classroom, all as a ploy to bring us together.”

“What, you and your students?”

“That would have made more sense, but no.” She told him about the Frenenanenomes, about how Teddy must have told George that Draco and Hermione were detention partners, and how they’d been getting into trouble on purpose.

“So the Frenenanemones were right.”

“No. George said that pink meant—”

“—that the pair was destined for love. I mean, I was pursuing you anyway, but the repeated detentions did give us a helpful push.”

“Please tell me you are not taking his side.” Hermione reached forward to scratch behind Furry’s ears. She looked so stressed, with her panting tongue and her gasping breaths. “If George ever needs a blind date, I’m recommending Dr. Calamity to him out of pure spite. Those two schemers deserve each other.”

Draco laughed. “Imagine George bringing a pygmy puff to Dr. Calamity, and she kidnaps it because she ‘doesn’t believe in creating magical constructs to be sold as pets.’”

“Sounds like something she would do. If she wasn’t so ridiculously self-righteous, I’d almost wonder if George put her up to failing to neuter Meowfoy.”

Draco sighed. “Unlikely. Theo’s done a pretty thorough job gathering evidence against her. Apparently, Meowfoy was just one in a series of endless lies she told her customers.” 

It was exactly seventy-nine minutes and two tubs of gelato later that the first kitten entered the world, wet, squirming and helpless. 

Draco tried to hide it, but Hermione saw him dab at his eye with a silk handkerchief. “That’s one,” he said. 

Furmione licked the kitten’s fur, jet black and damp from birth. “What should we call him?” asked Draco.

“I think that’s rather obvious, don’t you?”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Maybe to you.”

“His name is Hairy. Hairy Pawter.”

“Why would I name my grandkitten after  _ The Chosen Git _ ?”

A notepad, worn shiny with use, sat on Draco’s coffee table. Hermione snatched it and turned past page after page of legal notes. Ever since he’d quit his job, Draco had been studying relentlessly for the bar exam, as if he didn’t already have every law memorized. But the sooner he became certified, the more he could help the legal team he’d scraped together for the case against Lulawitch. 

“There. Finally,” Hermione said, pulling a pen from the table. She wrote “Hairy Pawter” on the last page in the book, the only one left empty.

Draco snickered. “Fine, but I get to name the next one.”

Kitten number two was a tabby, silver with black markings. “Tuna Lovefood,” said Draco. 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “That’s a thousand times worse than Hairy Pawter.”

He crossed his arms. “You promised me I could name this one, and that is the name I choose. Tuna Lovefood is a brilliant name for a cat, and you can’t convince me otherwise.”

From the padded box came a meow that sounded oddly irritated. 

“See?” Hermione said. “Furmione hates it.”

“Well, then it’s too bad we had a verbal contract. But if you like, we can name the last one together.”

Hermione nodded. “Sounds fair.” 

“I’m thinking Sir Catogan.”

“It hasn’t even been born yet. Shouldn’t we wait to see what it looks like?”

“Sir Catogan is a perfect name for any cat.”

“Yeah, unless it’s a girl.”

“For a girl…. Rowena Razorclaws.”

“Huh. That’s actually not half-bad.”

“You see? Your boyfriend isn’t a complete idiot.”

“Sssshhh. The last one’s coming!”

The room went so quiet, the only sound was the soft panting of Furmione’s breath and the thump of Meowfoy’s tail against the side of the box. Then the last kitten arrived, fur stuck in slick clumps. But the most surprising thing about the fur, even more shocking than its pure white color, was the sheer amount of it.

Furmione’s sandpaper tongue worked over the fur, combing through it until the kitten resembled a giant cotton ball.

“Flufflepuff.”

Hermione tore her eyes away from the precious baby. “Sorry, what?”

“Flufflepuff. This one has to be Flufflepuff.”

As furious as Hermione was with Dr. Calamity, she had to admit it was exactly as she’d predicted—three sweet, precious blessings. And even though this year had been a nightmarish mess, Hermione couldn’t imagine a happier ending. She had her cat, she had her classroom back in order, and she had her Draco. Who could ask for anything more?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear friends, dear readers, I'm a little bit sad and a little bit excited to post this final update.
> 
> Thank you so much for going with me on this journey and being my support through it all.
> 
> Thank you to Ethan, Bex, and Gallagher8 for their tireless beta work and all their helpful suggestions. 
> 
> And thank you to JKR, whose lovely Harry Potter Series (which I do not own) inspired this story.


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